Lunchtime is a late clarity for words;
shame on robins for chanting away
as the frost moulders on our patios,
snowscape scents mix well with funny
rhythms; the earth has green leylines
entwined with sesame-fused latex centers
to trap its energies in lines of stone lilies.
A rather dry heart sears dead flowers and
relishes the healing soul – I love a limpid meal
of wings, corn, fur and thorn-grown apples;
my husband, jelly beets and desolate fairies
trapped between bowels of the chestnut oak
that graces our kitchen. We forget about
the dazed acid basking, waiting hours on
the gasoline before we break our fasts
mid-noon, after daytime distress has dried
like red sugar on our petty souls, the jagged
ecstasy from dust to dust dissolves in
our lungs at once for more breath.
