Spring Will Be Closing Soon
And that scrubby mesa
can’t afford this rain, but she’d like to try it on anyway. Hey, Cinderella, it’s about to be —actually, summer in Arizona and winter in Alaska are exactly the same. It’s sort of like fascism and communism. But May’s idealistic, still, and birds rise up in defense, or in debate, of a world in which the impossible seems only barely so. Let’s just say you had nothing. It’s spring, it rains, you have nothing, but you could have anything at all for ten seconds. Do you want it? Do you want that body? The sound of your name? Would you like to slip into this rainy dress? When it’s gone, you can always deserve it. You can deserve anything you want as you walk home, but now it’s time to walk, by an empty, cracked road washed over with sand, and a creosote smell which is lush and endless inside you, as long as you never breathe out, and nothing will seem true tomorrow, sweating at breakfast and almost too hot to be lonely but you are the night’s own antelope, and you are a cactus covered with snow and you are a moth in a city of evening primroses, unfolded, bright, and offering their most expensive stamens out to you, because everything possible is just barely so, in the world there is much and vast beauty for rent.
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