Come, let me strain the raspberriestonight, stir the sauce—glassy the sugar,not too tart—pour it, wipe up the crimsonislands and returnto where I learned the revenueof taste. Taste that’s acquired an appetitefor place, rich with accrued mobilities:sun on the slender sill at early d

Spring is his burden, and the night, a robe: lividas poppies in a roadside wrap, facing the dying weather.Spring is the furrow on his shoulder swathe,between the neck and forearm. Thus was the intimation right: a savior comesout of Jerusalem, with pericardial threadto make a heart’s claim