This morning, there's No sugar-coloured blossoms, nor my own Superman. Spring is selfish, and a show-off. I alone wear a miniskirt, a brave offering against The death-grey sky, for the sun I hope for underneath Too, I remember Paris in October I remember how pale the city lay At the feet of the white temple The cells of the city Milk-innocent, echoing the blank high bloodless Sacred Heart But There's little yellow stars; jonquils, daffydils Knocking themselves dizzy in the rain. I shine inside-out.