the perfect crime

murder isn't made of sugar, or so says the
holly bush, reddened with late summer berries
isn't spun of camomile leaves, roasted to

submission, or so says the lonely gatherer
raw from the perplexities of the fields
hobbled by the rutters that desolate his

rows of barley nuts, stands of nightshade
sweetly hidden by those riotous cumquat
vines, isn't woven of old men's rails

or say patter-pittering brush-hogs, archly
discoursing through their late day scampers
atwitter as they daintily munch their scones

doesn't paint the painted lady, smooth away
the idle desolation, flick the lazy harbingers
who hover snipe betray snip and gossip

isn't made of sorrow, scotch and milk in
paper cups, oblique oglers hovering at the edge
with their shifting feet and flailing hands

or say simpering husbands, flagellating
nephews and mirror, mirror on the wall
who is the best, better, bestest of them all