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APRIL
April
is a sound after silence,
a
satyr with a grip on new life,
impatient
after the lull, the stagnation.
He
drags his goat-feet, he is simple.
Do
not offer him two ways,
he
is unable to see them.
Now
where is his evil drink,
his
Dionysiac ale?
‘My
world, my big, yellow cat,’
he
smiles, ‘let me love-bite your fur.
Yi!
This tame life. I
want touch!’
He
sees red, red fire, ascension.
His
adrenaline is a cheerful acid.
It
will melt our chains,
it
will start a conflict,
it
will make us itch,
it
will give us uncomfortable go.
Alan
Marshfield
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