Crocus, then

If we grant winter steal our bare shoulders
Shutter our hearts, deny our eyes open windows
Who then, of what mettle, would we be?

If not sun-filled and and mocking the chill
I should prefer my soul exiled
Some dark side of a most unearthly moon

The Fly

I prefer my quicker shutter
When lumbering around downtown
Up town, and out of town

These nouns all move
So fast
So fancy, in the vast

I can be about
Without being found out
With my quicker shutter