I never liked Spring.
The first deceiving breezes and suns,
The huge, discomfiting transformations,
The irrational climate,
Always made me weary.
Serpents raise their heads: men lower them.
The promise of the fixity of summer is all there is to it.
Broad, sure, muscular summer!
Its sweltering heat appoints the sun’s verticality over our heads,
And the vacuumed, blue, melanomanous light.
Yet all say, “Spring is beautiful. Isn’t it?”
“No,” I say, “Spring’s dreadful.”
For I know Spring mirrors our own tergiversations.