opposite to my window at the hotel

is a roof, my view of the town

while sleeping with my back towards the water

an old roof looking like orange fish scales

or a moulted burnt snake-skin

that I one night dreamed that I climbed onto

and in

diving down into the river from that

waking up remembering that I don’t know how to dive

with my head first, my head first

I don’t know many things, like knitting or speak French

or to ride a horse, but I do know

that spring has arrived in red

in my part of the world the buds have not yet opened

there still swelling

but here they have

here the buds are open

all gathered at the edgings of the spring flood

red strokes, bodies full

carried by the spring