Spring
How many sticky buds, candle ends
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.
Boris Pasternak
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