Poetry at Sangam



THE IDES OF MARCH by Andrei Guruianu

It has been snowing 
an endless morning 
with little resistance. 

If there’s a message here 
it comes sub rosa
a contraband green,
Spring’s suspicious offering.

Hours after signs 
no longer point to anything, 
sometimes the weary, 
sometimes the ones 
without any luck 
look up without expecting anything.