So, someone claps their hands and all the feetless things of

the world

spring to attention. An infectious delight; the air thick with

spores, enough

wayward hope to exceed chance. This is the healthy

flourishing that grizzles

at the nose and throat. All that had hugged to itself in the

cold recalls it's a sin

not to meet the sun with the appropriate degree of

enthusiasm. Everything

spills over like a litterbin. Smells spread further. A sticky

abundance. Even

our ears buzz with joy. Bring the bees, wasps, flies. Be happy.

Drag the days

out on to the streets, shuck the rain from the plastic chairs.

The tarmac hums

and the measly strip of common is now more than I can take.

My lungs

express this—when they can get a word in—the choking

flurry of excess sex,

a thoughtless jubilation around and in and of me, even as I

shake my head.