April 5, 2011


I think Spring might be here Humpty Dumpty
(with a smile in repose she waits for his death I suppose)

roaring silent
stilled snoring
pickle-jarred breath boring
what Winter calls
in a dusty ball
and emptying ears
clears the veneer
and turns the wheel
wet clay fingers feel
the maiden in glisten
played fools mist then
lean and bleed
into the empty space and weeds
where leaves wear shade
in thin regards
and sharded wades
and ramparts
scattered among what matters
feet first mend
burst then bend
as if following blood
and gravity who always know
where our old skins hide
in an unseen tide
among short-sighted divides
and wisdom flows
as if the stars still culling the cold,
told this April to fool no one
with the ol' man already running
on what were once his legs 
caught winded by her eggs
like when we try to stop breathing
and hold tight against a moment
as sweet as new skin reveals
another ghost pours forgotten,
feigned worn til rotten
and mad with what boils down deep 
from vapor to cloud creep
plump squeezed til reaped
trembling against what can hold all that light
when Brighid or bunnies push back with all their might
where the Sun runs metals like pooled rain in flight
where molecular charm, and
desire never lie still or cold for very long
and sometimes even hope finds the dark
is where we belong

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