Swabby

Things
I have watched them glide in season,
high season these things,
      high because of volume, because of winter –
the season between celebration and his grand leaving
      (do ya know what he said on the cross – this joke makes her squirm)

what have I done I wonder, in flying to spring
in leaving my peasant-dark time,
      early hours Mr. Winter, when I imagine I would be milking in the dark,
and luminous cream bobbing to morning moon song
chilly

what have I done I wonder, in flying
to this spring on a cork, with these things,
      things,
in leaving my parsnips - my dirt gold,
the fur who licks me – God I miss her in this neon spring
do you know – when was the last time they wished for winter ?
no one does
      no one
wishes to be cold and short and questioning,

gossamer secrets and jetfuel answers say go to spring,
       at least for a little while (three days, four nights)
be surrounded
look away, far, you have to at sea, and have to have
things, buy things
do things.
It’s high season.