SPRING

A pert young god comes, too, decked out with wings

Plus bow and arrows. And though he shoots things,

They don't drop dead; they spring up more alive,

Strive, thrive, have kids — their kind just might survive.

And since he wears a blindfold, his bowstrings

Twang the same tune for beggars, bankers, kings:

"May your pulse thump, your juices jump and jive."

"I need love like a black hole in my head,"

One young girl smirked. But just then Cupid's dart

Plinked her ear. Through a small opening fled

All thoughts she'd need nobody. "Let's just start

Checking for someone with the right-shaped heart

To fill this gap," wholeheartedly she said.

—From "Not For Specialists: New and Selected Poems,"

by W.D. Snodgrass,

BOAEditions, Ltd., $21.95 (softcover)