Amid early springtime’s hesitant snowmelt
a planet rearranges into loving explosions,
confessing no objective but to glower, then to fade.
Sprained branch and sprouting bulb.
The thunder-thrown volley of storm, engineering emergences.
Overhead a splotch-gray dome of sky threatens
bursting inward beneath a sunray’s duress.
And the I, which asserts now. Under a sunray I’d unbridle—
from west to east, and from whisper to scream.
Unbridle forever from a string of ink,
or maybe into a string of ink,
a string of ink that thinks itself bursting beyond a margin,
seeks to outlive its own overturning, long and recursive.
At once: I reassemble, I yearn to dissemble. I disassemble.
All along a thrasher egg hatches its self-detonation,
springs off, toward newfound flight out of fragility—
tenuous, the thrasher couldn’t know finer exits.