April a mixed–up
blue
as voices out
of
clouds within the
deep
unleashing fresh
thing
of sky it combs
out
clear as Venus spills
aloud
behind what air up
where
the surface of her is
470
degrees and the mountains
shine
as if with snow it isn’t
snow
it’s bits of lead that storm her
atmosphere
shaped into cubes or spikes
by all
hectic radios playing at once In the Spring I Had Great Hunger.