The First Mover

The entire body swells into its maximum of space
And pulses more intensely with its air, in its air,
Like a cube stretching into spheres of circumscription;
And this conjunction of perfect forms, inflamed by form,
Yearns for conjugation. But the mind in the pulse of its feeling
Cannot think or represent anymore than smell, clogged with pollen,
Breathes. Spring is felt first as a superfluity,
When all of winter's subtleties are forgotten because hair-splitting
Gives way to the splitting hairs of an abundant fruition,
A vegetation lassoing into its infinity, string by string,
In the passions of strong-flexing love.