The Taste of Spring

kowhai

From up here,
on my hill,
I see the white caps
of the harbour
stumbling in the morning light.
Their impetuous play
carries new anticipation.
They too fall upon the shore
in love.
In the vigorous wind
that bowls through the suburbs,
precariously tilted
over Wellington,
I witness the
gleeful annihilation of
clothes lines,
and the scent of the
wild spring
buffets my heart.

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Spring Day

A warm wind of copulation
disrobes itself in the trees.
Days of the frenzied sun
show me a shadow of guitars.

A silent blood
courses through the streets,
filling the flanks of the men
and the breasts of the dead,
with a scent of watermelons.
To taste this overflow of flesh,
reminds me of the death of insects.

A cloud of copulation parts the valley,
where a wounded town lies,
soaked in a music of vagrants.
The pines there are an unreachable breath,
a loosening of spring,
a sadness in our necessary seed.

Midday strokes the thighs
of all the girls,
and brings a memory of thirst.

I

Making your way through the blossoms,
the world is in love with you.

Bright and unapproachable ones
repeat for us the play of the bittersweet branch.

Who doesn’t hurt in their outstretched blood,
in the presence of these sleepwalkers?

We would have you in our sleep too,
the way the spring has you now,

the way it wraps longing around your shadow,
and holds you in its jaws of wind.

II

You, girls of becoming,
forever breaking forth into new branch,
becoming youth’s glistening barb,
the burning in the defeated flame,
and messengers in the ear of summer.
There are blue distances we cannot break,
and there is a sadness in the hollow of love.
You, girls of becoming,
who leave through the rooms
burdened with a sand of bliss,
you are becoming, at last,
a refinement of shadow,
a birth of moss.