Strange how, only days away from May,
the year’s already fat and swaying –
lumbering along not even halfway to its end,
already balancing and bending under all
the garish evidence and influence of its
accruing life: massively suspending every
lipid bit of an increasing bulk – a hulk
compacted out of four months of ennui
and love and lust and strife. Spring’s already
thick with it; Summer promises to be
insuperably slick with it – so heavy, hot
and wet with annum it-ness one must wonder
if the thing will ever shed into the fitness
which a Fall decrees. And yet the blubbered
year insists that it will wobble forward – up to,
through and past its last inevitable freeze.
.
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