How many sticky buds, candle ends
by Boris Pasternak
sprout from the branches! Steaming
April. Puberty sweats from the park,
and the forest’s blatantly gleaming.
A noose of feathered throats grips
the wood’s larynx, a lassoed steer,
netted, like a gladiatorial organ,
it groans steel-piped sonatas here.
Poetry! Be a Greek sponge with suckers,
among green stickiness drenched,
I’ll consent, by the sopping wood
of a green-stained garden bench.
Grow sumptuous pleats and flounces,
suck up the gullies and clouds,
Poetry, tonight, I’ll squeeze you out
to make the parched sheets flower.