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Page 128

Our snow is long gone -- or turned
into our pear tree's blossoms. The world
is no longer the blank page it was when
a friend gave me this book for Christmas.
I've filled half of it now. I've run out
of things to say about blank pages.
Nothing left. The world is filling up
with fullness, and so am I.
I must have said, by now, all that
can be said about blankness.

You know me too well -- no need
to say I'm lying. Spring is full of
springs, all these buds curled tightly
into themselves, about to burst, bodies
of every species leaping, thrusting, caroling,
all a-dance with sperm about to spring forth,
a taut rubber band in every loin
(live and loin!), even a gray-haired fellow
in his 60s, walking out to fetch
the junk mail, wants to squirm like a puppy.

Stroke my freckled pink belly, and my foot (the one
sticking up in the air) will jiggle for you.
Woof! (I'm warped.)

The blank page is a bud, coiled tight.
Words spring from it. (Like sperm?
Be a good egg, won't you, Reader?)

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