The Logic of Spring

In another poem, called The Logic of Spring, a mechanical drawing of a tree that I've passed a 100 times on my way to a different problem. I glance backwards, and the stack of the day multiplies, glancing backwards several times, the dog-eared corner with the graph paper sky of that morning and the logic of spring. Right before I wake, I hear the riposte of mean jays (blue dots that drag the pink banners of answers off the tree with words in gold italic latin) from the fog pumped in by the machine set on my lawn. First thing in the morning, (page numbers in all the dish rags hanging around the sink) I part the buttery curtains to see beyond the doric columns sitting on my porch & the hibiscus twig that someone has set the stump of such a tree—gray smudges and still intact line breaks with flashing pink splashes— outside my house while I slept. Seems unbearably cruel until I realize that in the flapping fog I finally hear its questions. Are you so easily distracted by pieces of a poem attached to a tree? in which as the situation changes you catch glimpses of yourself a series of emoticons.