Struggling up a steep drive, arms loaded with junk
masquerading as mail, I gave myself over
to false spring.  Caress of my invisible lover
flung envelopes, catalogs, fliers.  Nothing stuck
as I begged for the sensation of being melted
to oiled scent by a sneaked April’s second-skin kisses
just my temperature, no more.  For the bliss
of feeling I am known.  Me, myself,
the dirt, uncatalogued flower, not just flesh and bone.
More than the head connected to the neck,
to the breasts, to the stomach, the vagina, on down.
Rough start winds its way to warm silk net.
Spring comes in winter, color me there.
Slut in me crazy for your slippery air.