Cecilia Llompart

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If Springtime crawls out of thewild mouths of flowers, thensurely, Winter crawls out of mine

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I know my breasts, smallas plums, would win no blue ribbons.But in your hands they tremble and fillwith song like plump, white birds

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Winter is already a lost shape, forgottenin the ground. Instead, here is Springwith all the grace of a womansmoothing out her apron

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There are boneswaiting for names in the graveyards.Even the sun above us is dying, onelanded repetition of light at a time

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That dandy, the sky, enters blue-suitedsun like a scotch in hand