Wednesday, March 08, 2006


i say the words, trip my little steps, pluck
from the wild jasmine that hid my father
pitter a little patter on the garden stones

i never listened to the forest frogs, though
their whispers came to me, though their
sensual implications fell in repugnant

waves, i never listened to the weaver women
raucous bawdies somewhere out beyond
the banyan trees, that may have had his

ear, his tawdry impulsions, may have held
some distraction from our peonies, unbalanced
the tender care so demanded by our jonquils

i ever favored council from the lunar moths, for
who would not succumb to secrets caressed
directly from the flesh, drawn directly from the

corpus of a parent, flavored by its salty
indiscretion, its incipient putrefaction, who
would not glorias, ad deum, make his chorale

here, in the hallows, where tse-tses pollinate
my crocus, where i may dig with due observance
and wait, for the flowering of my father's smile


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