first_day_of_spring raze i can taste ethanol in water where none should be. smell the ghosts of memories faded like underfed photographs. maybe i've been poisoned. maybe you have too. so hear this: hand warmers are soft maracas held between these half-frozen fingers. bruised clover pumps life through the shallow veins of lesser leaves. the wind howls lonely and lupine-like. each hair that leaves my head paints a fresh frown at my feet. it's colder than any morning this late in march should be. but we've got time and the sun on our side. that's not nothing. 230320 what's it to you? who go blather from