By | 1 May 2020

The scent is the thing
redolent of absolute confusion

those spring days thick with parrots

the future all hands
and no face
it was the only thing that provided
comfort, then

I pressed a pain, like
marzipan, into a shape

I consulted
The Classical Order,
found it
unconciliatory and phallic

but I rode
in the volkswagen rabbit
and though I wanted to stay
in my corner of the Black Boar
tavern with its

tart strange beer and lecherous
hands on my waist,

it contracted behind me
until tiny, and distant as a
relative planet.

the Black Boar is closed now or
rather called some other name
which inspires no

I don’t live in the parrot
neighborhood anymore
and when, on Easter, Jesus slouches
harried down the street
I cannot see him.

My past plans:
for Aquarossa, a tiny

plans to find the right
song and the perfect
almond perfume

they hang humble
and bedraggled
like flowers surprised
by thirst

on a bough that sags a bit now
toward the ground

This entry was posted in 96: NO THEME IX and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

  • No Related Posts Found

One Response to Springtime

  1. Pingback: Recent Publications – as hummel