spring das poet

from afar the message reads
he's in a coma
on the morning of his fiftieth birthday
and so floods the
coffee orange
machine apart
piece.
the spaceport

but it doesn't look so good
the pressed suits are out

and i want a comfort to cry and hoist


smell the sap upon sand
choked tactile
in stubby corners
without
restraint
reminder of a shallow grapple