--Rachel Abramowitz
Spring, my little knife,
skittish as a criminal drunk
on scholarship, here I am
on your doorstep, bearing the warts
of our long acquaintance. The sky
negligees its way through every globe of dew
caught in the earth’s unwashed hair.
You are the season of loathing, of one
half of the brain refusing to question
the other half, preferring
to cyclops its way through the grift.
Hold this fencepost, hand me the hammer.
If God is to think about human beings
it must be in a piece of land with a fence around it.
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