Spring in America
The first blossoms are doomed to die when the frost comes back like it just walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, forgot what it came looking for, and walked back out.
The air smells like:
the feeling of tripping over discarded bits of green plastic on the sidewalk,
the kind of allegiance to a foreign government that we're okay with because it is at least still white,
and I guess also promise unfulfilled.
It is louder than winter or maybe winter is loud but we don't hear it with our windows closed.
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