page 70

It's Spring

we're all made of flashy edges
we're all on edge, we're on the edge
of something and the most minute
is a taut spring that flips us over:
I snip out photos from a magazine,
the scissor blades wake the cat
with their soft unoiled chirrup
and he is ecstatic,
he uncoils in the air
with the back leg kick
of a released jack rabbit;
while Catherine's mouth waters
as the blades slice paper with the sound
of shredded iceberg lettuce—
she could eat a field—
Glenn feels the sound
like the lift of the mail flap
then the rip of an envelope
chock with a language
that all means yes:
to me it's a burst
of teeth into fat grapes,
or something like this.