After a winter of seclusion
I curtsey farewell to my pagoda:
Friend, tinfoil gangster, deviant silo,
I leave you to your own stale resources
to wander this spring in my disguises,
in my new naked zigzagging across
the pulsating battlefields of my own kind.

Murmur of cherry blossom, I winced, glassy-eyed:
Had not I dreamed their color in my fairy tale?
Then hush; homeless now, I am arriving
at my one true home, the barricades melting.
The further I delved into these murderous zones
the more crisscrossed and woven became
the life within my fussy warehouse and that
beside this celebrated outer cherry.

Your wish is my command. I said to no one special.
Feeling festive now, and somewhat fraudulent,
I waited for the zodiac to sneak a glance
at my horoscope. Was this to be, spluttering,
with the plumes of raspberry light
erasing my hearsay and stifling my double?
I picked a thread from the zillion squiggles
and followed it around the corner to where
an orchestra was looking askance and
asking for complete silence.

Men sat outside their factories playing dominoes.
Their bodies were swollen, as after a hurricane.
I had dreamed of this hour; and yet, standing there,
my dream seemed suddenly, monotonously, attenuated,
as though a tugboat were the wiser to ignore
this sinking ship. I moved on, sobbing, giggling,
and looked back more than once to no hands waving.
Spring was truly begging to be born
like a cipher  that aspires to the number one.
Hush, It is all hearsay, irresistible hearsay.