ruby shimmers through the green mirage,
the hummingbird in iridescent hover:
can you capture time?
a magnet that draws ferrous thought to fore-
a lesson in the tricky rates of hidden change
the bald clown is bearded with spiky chance:
back then, your weapon was merely a pen.
my, how you've changed, says a vacant friend-
your steadfast mirror lied day by dripping day:
fuck that mendacious glimmering sycophant,
lies, damn lies, and ballistics.
it might have been the beating wings
flapping into spinal clouds and dreamy chakras
or just the blurry haze of Euclid Avenue:
this is blinded now by greeting cards of pink and lace
and the perfumed memory of shocked receipt
in the gone horizon where the lick was expectation.
the certain demise of an ill-kept orchard
can fool the eye with a sudden blushing bride-
the failure to prune concealed by orange blossoms:
part the white curtain to reveal
the studious gift of kaleidoscope planting:
a lovely shoot that trembles the ribald god.
from the scary stumps of winter,
we get the herbal tendrils
of a wet and luscious spring
and the shampoo of eternal youth:
oh green, take me to an ice-pop moment,
the sky-blue ecstasy that surpasses all understanding:
can a brother get an egg cream?
each pulse of the heart tells a tale
that is muddled in its capture,
only the stills have meaning.
a sleepy march towards the hearse,
a pattern watched through faulty clocks
becomes the measure of a certain lie.
worship can be smaller than you imagine,
unless you're a special occasion.