If it were Spring
and I killed a man,
I would change him to leaves
and hang him from a tree,
a tree in a grove
at the edge of a dune,
where small beasts came
to flee the sun.
Wind would make him
part of song,
and rain would cling
like tiny crystal worlds
upon his branch
of leaf-green skies,
and he would bear the dance
of fragile bone,
brush of wings
against his maps of arteries,
and turn up a yellow-stomached flag
to herald the touring storm.
o my victim,
ou would grow your season
as I grew mine,
under the spell of growth,
and I killed a man,
I would change him to leaves
and hang him from a tree,
a tree in a grove
at the edge of a dune,
where small beasts came
to flee the sun.
Wind would make him
part of song,
and rain would cling
like tiny crystal worlds
upon his branch
of leaf-green skies,
and he would bear the dance
of fragile bone,
brush of wings
against his maps of arteries,
and turn up a yellow-stomached flag
to herald the touring storm.
o my victim,
ou would grow your season
as I grew mine,
under the spell of growth,
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