Spring Reign by Dean Young

 

River Styx, a partly subterranean waterway, emerges onto the surface in Mammoth Cave National Park. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Spring Reign by Dean Young

 

Thank you whoever tuned the radio

to rain, thank you who spilled

the strong-willed wine for not

being me so I’m not to blame. I’m glad

 

I’m not that broken tree although

 

it looks sublime. And glad I’m not

 

taking a test and running out of time.

 

What’s a tetrahedron anyway? What’s

 

the sublime, 3,483 divided by 9,

 

the tenth amendment, the ferryman’s name

 

on the River Styx? We’re all missing

 

more and more tricks, losing our grips,

 

guilty of crimes we didn’t commit.

 

The horse rears and races then moves no more,

 

the sports coupe grinds to a stop, beginning

 

a new life as rot, beaten to shit, Whitman

 

grass stain, consciousness swamp gas,

 

the bones and brain, protoplasm and liver,

 

ground down like stones in a river. Or does

 

the heart’s cinder wash up as delta froth

 

out of which hops frog spawn, dog song,

 

the next rhyming grind, next kid literati?

 

Maybe the world’s just a bubble, all

 

philosophy ants in a muddle,

 

an engine inside an elk’s skull on a pole.

 

Maybe an angel’s long overdue and we’re

 

all in trouble. Meanwhile thanks whoever

 

for the dial turned to green downpour, thanks

 

for feathery conniptions at the seashore

 

and moth-minded, match-flash breath.

 

Thank you for whatever’s left.

 

 

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