You may, however, read these words and write with blind hands upon the shadows that you may cross. For I was born in May, charging forward like the bull. May's vitality claims the land. Nature's vigor reborn all piss and vinegar, young and maybe are not in my vocabulary this delicious month. May. May strings inside me, notes of rain frozen into snow.
Fragments scatter through the known space with chaotic precision.
When words pile from Winter's dross It must be May in the poet's house. And she washes dishes, stares out the window at the May grass, dark and lush. Magician May, you pinch a common sky, pull back blue roses just like that. Each arm reaches through her, and the sun's out, a skirts flash thigh. You may, but only because it's May, and the finger is yours.