by Virginia Swenson
Virginia Swenson is a writer and performance artist based in Los Angeles.
In spring, a second is a growing thing.
The space between bird songs is full of
That good ambient rupturing:
Dryers, stomachs, my tax return
Arriving. In spring, I am always a very
Excusable late. I pause my truck
For goslings crossing the road
Who shout at each other
And me, waddling over wet shiny pavement
To the harbor.
In spring, Love
Is coming out of most holes.
It’s hard to stop singing, my mouth is often
Pecking unconsciously, and we hear harbors
Pulling in the wares, trains blasting home.
They are bringing back news and
The news is that we are all
Ok, and have at least a few months
To stay that way.
In spring, suddenly change
Is my idea. I am bored out of
Joy and I can’t find my phone.
I crave salt to balance all this
Fresh fruit copulating.
Danger danger yells the sign by the
Wet roads. Blankets are all totally drowsy
Or damp, but I forgive them, I forgive everyone.
There is nothing to say but I say it!
There is nothing to want but I want it!
We are all here for the same party.
And it’s already a hit ‘cause we’re all here.