It’s April, incantatory April
the warbles of birds rise up like a gas
and reading Marx under the almond tree
drinking a glass of coffee
My whole limbs feel sharp as knives
I want to rend the day open like a toffee
and place this rage, this unsaid
name at its heart
and the spring day strung on a gold thread
with its hungry art
the flowers blazons of sex
with whorled, sprawled limbs
and the sea-tempest of seeds
seeking blindly in
if I could make a blade of my tongue
if I could split the air in two—