Aprille

When April softens the frozen leaves,
and breaks the hard, rime-fit of March,
through dog shit and the squirrel’s cache;
when Adirondack wind hits maple tin
and finds the crocus near the road;
when the young sun marks the birth of my wife;
and starlings, crazed and packed in the gutter,
sing hungry in the dark mornings—

then the people start looking for eggs.

Jesus Christ.

They are hungry from fasting
and looking for Houdini,
with dirt on their foreheads
they rush into the backyard.

Augustus Rivers