I like to get unhinged in early spring:

Hung over from dark, I want to spark a light

that should be left out in the cold. I’ve caught

magnesium flare of slow-streak meteors, twice.

The first, in Boston, walking home too late:

I saw it bright above the bridge. You blinked.

Then later, soft warm night in Monterey,

A sizzle by the bay, grand fireball

shed pieces of itself as it went out.

That one burned close enough to remark upon.

Burned close enough to catch a sudden scrap

of what you will; enough to draw a breath,

lie still ’til March, when sun comes back to us

and cold ground splits from burgeoning new words.

Orthogonal to what we say, the heat

of saying it at all. Don’t leave us out

here in the cold. Ten years of other flames

burned out; I found a nickel-iron core,

accretions on impact. The spring’s ahead.

Put down your torch. The ground’s already singed.