All the Blossoming Is Is This

It wasn't as depressing as it looked—
to eat a Subway sandwich

all dripping 12 inches
by myself

outside Cobo Hall, facing Canada
with no Red Wings
applause to be heard
or deserved.

Springtime is nothing
but the internal sweetness
of all things
wishing to escape.

In scabs and sap
the young transplants ooze
from slender necks—
trees and girls alike—
along the modernized river-walk
where the Detroit River
squeezes beneath
evening's eventual

When spring finally settles
and I re-remember once again
the world's potential for infinite stillness—
the diagonal streaking
of dense backyard dusk, the
sound of birds slicking off molecules
with no resistance, the sad infinity
of forgotten perfection:

I damn it all and make love to it

The grotesque perfection is the only
beast with which, anymore, I
am truly capable of

There is sour beer I suck in
with a force
as my neighbor throttles a lawnmower
down a repaved alley.

At night
when the river is distant
invisible ships
let go of booming calls
too slick to withhold.

The things we pose and inject
will rearrange themselves anyway
as we sleep through the storm.

The things we force down
will eject with an ease
or turn inside-out
like nervous little

All the blossoming is
is this:
the grotesque revealings—
the internal springtimes
we could no longer contain.