Let crocuses come.

Let everything come
dance before us like cabaret
or searing ghosts
in this mad, sad world.

Somewhere in clinics
heads twitch in their blisters,
eyes welded shut,
the accuracy of our minds
is called into question.

It's hardly real
what we see on TV, behind
the dots colored
as if they connected.

I look at my hand
like a bomb, searching
for life-lines,
more than guilty
of a few wild deeds.

This blanket of snow
is everywhere--
even on the screen
when the war has ended

for the night
and the colored dots take
refuge,  pressing

hard against the ground,
spring, spring.

                  -- David Radavich



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