Crescent Time Breathing
There is no reach by which we as breathing creatures of crescent time,
Can ascertain the crouching intentions behind an elm tree with acorn outbursts,
Designed to scan the visions of the seething statues which stand upright in dark halls,
There is no grasping the dog tail complacencies by which we as mandrakes can navigate,
The crest-line urgencies behind drawn curtains which beggars a pittance of mild regret,
Absorbed obsessively with intense window flashings at noon with skin and lace,
3 o’clock connivances wearing nothing but a wistful grin seeking summits of perfumed ice,
There is no reach by which any living contrivance can mock the wags of crescent time,
We are ridiculous in our incessant acorn outbursts designed to scan the farthest atom.
“This bitter, green fruit soaked in brine
is palatable, but I wish
to make the flavor more divine
by stuffing in some oily fish.”
“That thistle up there on the hill,
though spiny-sharp and armor-tough,
might prove to be delectable,
if it were just boiled enough.”
Who first made such discoveries?
Were they intended to be jokes –
the olives stuffed with anchovies
and boiled hearts of artichokes?
Though I think they are delicious,
their origins seem pernicious.
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