Spring

by Glenn McPherson

The disappearing sound of the slasher
Matches the remote an orphic loneliness
Felt first in the new clover’s shudder,
In the bluebells, in the yearling’s
Twitching ear.

The sun heats quickly the flattened
Snake that for many months cold
In its torpor by a thin creek held blood
Aware only, like the deaf, of
A vibrating language

Through stone. Among these words slip hollow bones.
You are disturbed. She must return,
It is obvious to everyone, and it is not so
That your ears burn like the sun
Behind wheat?

And even if Eurydice came across the paddock
Out of the trees and paused among the last yellow
Flowers of broccoli to watch the bees droning
Like monks, and seeing you, unlocked
The gate

There would be on the possessed land
Another unimaginable plague
You have lost faith in and
She will dissolve like lathered soap
Into the greasy earth.