there was a sign ascendant, I do not know its name

i. the walking way of suburban demise is saved by memory

the beige rhythm of a bonnet dirge
celebrates, in geriatric cadence,
the unseemly end of a graying sun:

the incandescent price of a velvet gouge
elbowed through the misty ropes
was the in we wanted long ago.

now a circular trek no longer seems to matter,
but buoys the stylish blossom of a flowered hat
and the rainbow scratching of a groove worn flat:

if only it were so fetching as it premiered in silver
when the mirror preened its dominance.

it starts now and ends now
at the wonderfully static doorstep
and the knitted cat that stops the draft.

there was nothing about a rock, but

ah! the fragrance of meaning is honeysuckle joy,
and this is how a love continues.

it is so good to own a visor.

ii. weather can be so fickle in the spring of memory

something on the humid wind
that hints of salty pleasures,
something from the musky south-

a breezy treat that might arouse
the trade winds long kept hidden:

what can you do in a day?

a lifting of the lace that shows
that lips are made for kissing-

the rhythm of a mossy gait
is a calling card for frisson.

iii. dark myths shackle the dining public

cue the caterwaul into the valley of chrome,
set the salt and pepper to stunning gleam-
here comes the curvy creamer, at last,
with her lascivious dance of awkward patterns
and the calico china of cryptic grief:

a checkered board in nine dimensions
where the purple valley is forever lost
and the shallow knife is far too keen
for the cut you need to make.

we only wanted to feed the hungry
and, see, what a mess we've made:

in the hidden canyon of jailed desire,
the magician always removes the cloth
in one efficient seamy wink,
inserts a joke about congealed dessert-
the barmy always mention pudding.

is it just a bored quip of the coverlet
or the Pan that comes from wanting?

the raincoats of a lesser god
sell moonbeams from a jar.