[Spring kinks its shiv]
       

Spring kinks its shiv
in thigh, in lyric I

misfiring, it spills—
wrist, wrist, wrist.

Birds flit, grift, tilt in flight—
chirp in twig-crib.

I, bliss-chimp, dimwit,
dig in hips, nip figs, fling first.

Isn't spring illicit?
This isn't its script?

Light fills twin kilns with fists.

Grip insight, I think. Sink.

Kitsch is this lip I lick with dim instinct.

I insists I brims with thrills.

Nitwit I—thrill is invisible.

Still, I is shrill.
I flits in this,
pissing blight.
I is birthright.

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Copyright © 2013 Benjamin Cartwright All rights reserved
from Parcel
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission