i. the fair weather that grew into a silky redemption
our gate into the moss that day
was trilled in a perfect coloratura,
demising at will the bark target
that was grilled by rusty willows-
pink but secretly unmentioned:
the munificent weeping of impatiens
in a necessary press towards bloom
as to my blush became the saintly dew.
you might call it paradise,
I call it something more.
ii. every evolution has a modicum of unfortunate offshoots
then came a calligraphy shorn of boredom that never faded:
our foundry unspoiled and grave where carved tablets lounged
in a soothing sienna mud that reeked of bubbling, spiky abuse.
I was so high I could see the planets.
iii. it only sounds like growling when I mean it.
there was something barking a gray language of granite oppression,
a voice that dragged with sisal ropes across the canine floor
and tore into the seductive sway of elms and oaks and maples:
it had the darkening violence of an unexpected autumn storm-
I had only expected leaves.
iv. the circle is sometimes announced by the chimes of innocence
twigs were hurled until our nostrils reeked of blood-
times were so much different when the sun arced low
and a horrified pack of shills went monkey, totally:
for a split dream moment the falcon aspired
under gray flurries that huddled with the Valkyries-
to wait for the freeze is, often, to be frozen still:
I still yearn for that sky-blue pop.