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ANOTHER   SPRING

 

In the gold mouth of a flower

the black smell of spring earth.

No more skulls on our desks

 

but the pervasive

testing of death – as if we had need

of new ways of dying? No,

 

we have no need

of new ways of dying.

Death in us goes on

 

testing the wild

chance of living,

as Adam chanced it.

 

Golden-mouth, the tilted smile

of the moon westering

is at the black window,

 

Calavera of spring.

Do you mistake me?

I am speaking of living

 

of moving from one moment into

the next, and into the

one after, breathing

 

death in the spring air, knowing

air also means

music to sing to.

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