Limbo a kind of dance, barely mentioning motion:
a dove, a dish thrown at the wall, a cavalier smileb
a pout that can’t be partitioned, your vague comment
merely: Don’t throw the calabash melon out.
Calabash, code for don’t throw, don’t abash, don’t cast about
for what you can’t say. Don’t dance the subject.
If by chance I found your meaning in a cryptic note,
you can’t say I’d advanced
my heart about the garden where I sit limbed –
bowed as the mourning dove in his spottery coat
spotting me here in the garden rows with crow,
(garden plot as context).
Please sit on the fence with me, doubt what we say,
(epoch disease: the quibble) help me
save this cumbersome calabash planted between
pirouetting delphinium, whining forget-me-nots.
Let all secrets remain in their pockets; I once tried to
say something certain; it died on the vine
though the rest of the garden
1 November 2012