May 1st, New Jersey

In May the flowers all are
Past. It is not Spring, it is
If Something stands still long
Enough the World will
Jostle it forward. Always
Forward because that is
How Things are. A feather
Trapped in the old-screened
Half-windows and the Sun
Disdaining covert-human
Metal. Everything is as Still
As the dried lilacs. Still like
Summer and yet-not-yet(Yet!)
Phrases the phone Wires are
Empty nothing is Alive
But the plane and darkened
Stirring no Hawks or
Poetic omens otherwise. If bringing
Is enough: then it has
Not been enough the tenor
(How) today…tenorbaritone
feel of Summer. He is
quiet today the hordes of
buzzing-dusty cicadas
crawling their shedding
husks around him. It was
either February or April
and it was never May, no
the budding trees are leafed
out in full crowns and
the dead-blue sky ahead
or over or neither could
be Moscow or Berlin or
anywhere else the Bombing
Lancasters have yet to
Tread like that Falconine
Plane and oh wait
Maybe they have

A bird roosts
By ringing