is here so now the plants and animals
are starting to have sex again. We’ve unblocked
the drain of its crud and bumf, the smell is waning.
We’ve washed the gravel, and piled the fox turds
in a far off corner. We are wearing slightly fewer clothes.
Our bodies, newly exposed, are strangers to themselves.
They chime against the air. A thought arrives of our life
together, yet to come. It configures like a beam of dust.
Look, this plant has made it through the winter you say,
as millions of photons whoosh through my hands.
first published in The Poetry Review, © Jack Underwood 2015, used by permission of the author.