This season sets in like a condition:
I am succulent as agar
to its green spread,
eagerly suck up its moist progress like mud;
everywhere liquids run sweet enough
to make the teeth ache, or kill sprouts
obedient in their pots.
How the tepid wind spills into the air
like nourishment, like messages —
and how it will remit, the warm
wet rampage over, and how
the cells will diminish
into safety.