The others have perverse minds; I abide
In middling envy. Unlike March, April
Aspires to nothing but shoots: the seeds
Applaud themselves into greenness.
We make love to intensify the cruelty.
At the bar: a man who has become
His beard. His bejeweled companion
Keeps on about Jesus. The beard
Is making her do it. It would
Make for a tear-stained sunset
If I staggered outside with a beard
Of my own, a minor beast, obese
With calculus, with glycogen,
And turned, bird-shadowed, for home.