Things begin to burgeon. The peas go gallivanting
in their pods. The old spring prop, birdsong, wafts
through the trees, the trees with their leaves lit
like the underside of the sea. We walk deep inside
and have a picnic there. In the filtered gloss of
the forest, pears come out of our pockets and
lunch proceeds. All this is pleasant and I will
erase it. I will erase it because the height of insanity
demands that I do. The height of insanity says we were
in a field under a festoon of clouds. The height of insanity 
says it was snowing, insists that I say in the heaven
of February, in a porcelain snow. I will erase it.
The heaven of February knows I was there, in the woods
on the twenty-second of April, eating. My hand goes
to my mouth. There is horror in my eyes. How do I know?
The martinet in a boiled shirt says it is so.
Christ, I’ve had a happy life! But who am I to know?