Seedfluff gathers in white canals along the path
but how to locate the source:
some bramble let-go into all possible

green. Late March and craving
the fixity of an object.
To hear the bullfrog and see him at once.

The blueprint of spring revealed
itself so briefly at dawn.
For two hours I could see,

outlining the trees,
a presence like slipping
between the margins of loss.

Turtle on the path now.
Thirteen moons painted on its shell.
And the blueprint of the boy

tucked in its own sac:
instructions for eyes, nerves, a spine.
Waiting for the window

to the next world to open, I say
there is no knowledge like this
but so many minor gladnesses.

Blackbird. Cricket. Clay.
Tulips flouncing open at midnight.
Lightening in the belly,

not long before the last dark gasp of sea.
Instincts we are born with:
suck, cry, sleep.

To stand before a body
of water and want
to throw the palmed stone in.