First day the buds begin to swell. No matter. Tomorrow the mercury will drop. The birds were on the maple early. I want the body’s drug, not under another body but narcotized by music in a minor key until I shimmy. I want coins on my lavender skirt to catch every last bit of light they can suck up, wildness pulsing, the tremors, the snaky undulations of belly and hips. Quiver of fire. Me and not me, always something veiled.