Blue jay vocalizes a clash on the color wheel, tulip heads removed one by one   with a golf wedge. It’s something in the frequency. Expectations are high.   There’s a reason they call it the nervous system. Someone in bed at 11 AM impersonates   an empty house. Dear god. The sharpener’s dragged his cart from the shed. His bell   rings out of the twelfth century to a neighborhood traumatizing   its food with dull knives. A hammer creeps to the edge of a reno and peers over. Inching   up its pole, a tentative flag. What is the source? Oh spring, my heart is in my mouth.