Friday, April 21, 2006


i often sit, in those oddment years, among the crocus,
listening to my lilacs, waiting for the peonies to raise
their raucous cries, raise their abject poesies

and i moderate the querulous daffodil, intemperate
neighbors all, forever frenzied with their pollen-heavy
dramas, so cantakerous in their mise-en-scene

and i bow reproached before my sibilant pansies
little humblers of the mongrel rhododendra,
but with the tiring of the day, its awkward and

poorly staged repair, i long for plaintive songs of
calla moths, malicious monologues from velvet
millipedes, sly and pornographic rhumbas by the

luna flies, and how i aria with exultant tse-tses
leap dangerously across my iris-addled fens
until there rises in the glistened banyans

mourning-calls, hesitant asyncopated cantatas
flighty thistle g-minors, swanning through the
berry bogs, where court all manner of fruity aphid,

and beget in victorian fervor my moony and corpulant
cater-wings, but til and only rouse a quorum of pandering
mimosas, feckless whisperers of actionable delight

and i often sit, when lamentation bitters all the dark
caress my muted lips, with my ungenerous lover,
simply unremembered, brushed like chalk across the sand


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