Turnground Ave.

A brief opening for sunshine,

and the cresting icy water overflow
along the torn sides of the road
aglitter with an overtly aggressed

racket; torn droplets; rubble gravel.

How some considerations can hedge
out enthusiasm, like when advertised
with the mile markers and spotlights.

May worn dreams always be broken.

What isn’t calculated in a warmup
laden with the tear away of eroding
presence. Go ahead, call a construction

crew with orange fluorescent triangles.

But, you, should pass on brunch with the
project manager. His intone will place too
many accusing questions and inquiries

into past and future residences. Annoying.

Might it instead with assembly reflecting
titillation, seen of, newness that exists,
gone within the absence, that is entirety of,

just passing road and more brushing momentum,

pushing and pulling what’s never more
than the headlong infinity of changes eating
away as the dangerous triggers of spring,

a spine ground down in the dirt and found

after the thaw of winter, uprooted by
some flowers that come forward within
the few minutes of colorful concordance.