Why have we returned
from our flights across continents, our
being-above-clouds, our seashores and jasmine,
to this: emails, interfaces, documents,
to being belowground?
why these, blue Monday, these abrading
and ill fitting uniforms,
and not the indolent spring changelings
we felt ourselves to be only yesterday?
at least the wind is whipping
the night. at least
the street smells of rain and the blossom
on the tree looses its attar
at least our bare legs know the chill
of March, which is just
future April's backward look