Wild ones,

Why have we returned

from our flights across continents, our
being-above-clouds, our seashores and jasmine,

to this: emails, interfaces, documents,

to being belowground?

why these, blue Monday, these abrading
and ill fitting uniforms,
and not the indolent spring changelings

we felt ourselves to be only yesterday?

at least the wind is whipping
the night. at least

the street smells of rain and the blossom
on the tree looses its attar

at least our bare legs know the chill
of March, which is just

future April's backward look