April, you exhaust me —
Your absence of scar
consigns the world to oblivion.
When everything organizes
its death — Oh, the wind,
punctual as drama
spills your rosy rain.
Enough now of your hue
of blood and perfunctory joy.
Be larger, as the sea.
Exceed your own cruelty.
Bees and birds keep dropping
dropping, still, their
unremembered losses.
No dew consoles them
upon this garden of rock.
Bloom — How well we knew
your name before. See,
how impotent is your art
here. We are all drowning
Equally —