Put the wet trash in the oven and hang
                your door bouquet. It’s a season of
                rickety picture hooks and ticketed adjunct
                sleeping positions. Where a whistle is
                heard, tiptoe hunchfront hustleaway in a
                hey diddle goodnight stupor. But
                bubbling up numbtacks. Take time to
                heal, so subtle your way out the garden
                gate full of repressed shimmer. Maybe
                don’t worry about slithering into last
                season’s lacks, and let the froth on your
                whiteness settle. Whip over when you
                feel a second sleep coming on. If you
                can’t sit back, sit still. Good ribbons.


Amaranth Borsuk is our Poet in Residence for April.