eye a muse-d ewe once ago ...................................................................................................... (dead bumble bee chronicles and ram low steam to rain)

photo by Edward Rinaldi

there would no longer be 
any good mornings 
or hey sweethearts she said 
wasn't I supposed 
to be dead already ...? 

I suppose I was always meant 
to be thought 
of this way 
but here I am still craw-ed in your stilled 
and not emptying quickly enough of me 
lock boxed chambered heart and eyes ... 

I went looking for sexy mum 
you went looking for father 
I suppose neither one of us 
found in each other 
what we were looking for 

and now the lace-lets of piano 
take me to the open window 
towards the smell of rain 
and deepening May 
the call to June 
how I love thee 
and Autumn too 
but Summer day 
is not so favored 
or assuredly mine 
any more 

I side with night 
its short breath 
and expanse 
the lance of dew 
the hand organ song 
of its soul is a tarantella 
that I knew 
when I first heard it 

the birds 
too, come to 
sing pour you 
the last glass 
on the grass 
and walk barefoot 
as if the tides 
are real low 
and whispering 
go to bed 
go to bed 
dream of mountains 
and the rain 
beaches and the explanations 
that sometimes arrive 
many years later 
in a poem 
or forward 
to a novel 
not yet written, titled ...

'Dawn approaches : angled your dagger-ed light'

EJR ©