procrastinaters.com

On the First Day of Spring

The studio smells like sleep—

  The air stale from the cot

      where a salty film of moisture

      dries in the morning sun;

  Stale from the tomato-sauce-crusted plate,

      coagulating in the thawing rays;

  Stale from the yellowing pages

     where stray oils and beer and sweat

     splashed and spilled and dripped.

        Pages hosting musty life,

          photosynthesizing.

  Stale from yellowing underwear,

     brimming the laundry.

Two inches of glass

   abates the frigidHarlemair,

   constrains the months of dormancy.

Today, though,

Sun rises,

Frost melts,

Air warms,

      Window opens.