Here comes the magic voice—
that precipice of spring that rides us hard.
The birds talking all of a sudden so that I text
the friend closest by Can you hear the same ones I hear?
People run down the street, listening to digital song all
What if we could rig clouds with mics:
          faintest sounds of mist on air to the day screen?

Because the winter worse, and cold May the scream now
Because do nothing but roll with/on the interrupting mattresses of snow
Because even now I walk toward the window first thing
And the clean warm roofs do their dreamsnow through the blinds
What delay the spring sing, messy warnings as long
          as this light that lasts surprisingly into dusk.

Nothing else to do but back up into literature.
The character with the blue linen shirt, mind-close,
who says something perfect about the air. Better
than something that got loose of an extreme, teeming biomass—
the man on the actual street in the actual equivalence.

Such clattering strings in venom, waiting for that white leg to form.
Waiting for the voice: the pissed off crocuses pushed through in January,
now coming back through

          may have feelings about it, blood rage, blood rage of plant

No, the other voice. That says, Can you hear that?