Wind sharpens

the March air—
              seed fragments in fast forward

and the grey rags

              of pigeons 
              a sprinter trailing dreads as she practices
everywhere the strain

              into life

of an early season.
No centre to truth,

only these small-holdings—
urchins of skeletal burrs

              caught in the rasp
a woman between home

and work thumbing rind off an orange—
each saying

              loudly don’t refuse this
each saying

                            it contains us.