wilted in the whorl
of nature’s indiscretions,
it is a conceit
of cool perfections -
of unannounced metaphors,
fancied trinities,
hidden displays of
unspoken affinities
- and it is morning’s
ruddy messenger,
returning from China a
bloody Kissinger,
seated aloft in
the princely novitiate,
his wanton command
to propitiate -
and it is the stamen of
some lusty flower
preserving its guard
within the blustery hour
- and the last words of
one’s dying mother,
perhaps the entreaties of
a trying lover -
and an empty church
abiding the townspeople
with a rush of wings
about the steeple
…so much to recommend that
a sled feels sorrow
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