Screw Spring
------------
by William M. Hoffman

Screw spring. 
I’m the only thing not blooming. 
The arrowhead plant, so carelessly plotted, 
is growing godammit. 
Even the jonquils, 
brought for one dinner, 
are not quite dead. 
Under the bed 
the dust is as thick
as wool on spring sheep, 
which are undoubtedly 
grazing where 
grass is growing 
at an enviable rate.

Screw spring. 
My boyfriend’s taken
to getting up early. 
He goes out 
to see plants 
pushing their way 
out of the ground, 
and flowering, 
and sits by some chartreuse tree 
in the sun, breathing air 
as sweet as berry wine, 
watching girls pass. 
Their faces are rested 
from sleeping alone all winter.

Screw spring. 
I wish it were winter, 
when the world’s 
this one room. 
These walls, this bed 
do 
not 
grow.