The daffodils are barging in
like strange things
with popping rights.
Every spring they rush
to the head of the line —
dot colors of absolute.
I wonder if Utrillo could
have painted a daffodil
with a log straight stem
and delirium tremens?
how his hands made
the leaves quiver,
the branches jump —
dabs of twitch
and globs of twitter.
No one could imitate
Utrillo:
He trembled his way
through bistros, asylums, and
Catholic castles,
white and tall with
crosses jumping out
of the lines and women
with large bottoms —
walking away.
