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1 poem
by Virginia Swenson

Virginia Swenson is a writer and performance artist based in Los Angeles.

In Spring

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.

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