Wind-moles have tunneled
through the daffodil rings,
stems are uprooted or fractured,
Yellow bells and trumpets
fly in a tumbling sky.
The third month is a despoiler,
it scatters and stomps fiercely
upon the newly arrived.
Roofs are launched
to flap away on broken wings.
Yet the strong survive
until the lion yawns
temporarily bored with its play.
Like any cat, it yawns
and sleeps
while the sky washes it face.
If the new risen shoots persist,
if the tender buds
escape all runaway winds
if our lives can be nailed down,
only then
will the lion of March at last
lay down with its lambs,
but only to guard them
from its own rage and hungers.
Bush: she had a deep
black birds nest.
Fecund Arabic woman
dark peaches for thin lips.
White faced, I redden in the sun,
a blanched fig, a thirst
for dew drops.
One night is enough, maybe two,
there must be a Spanish guitar
pleading the stars for more tears.
I have a comb
for her oval waves,
she is, for a while,
the mother of the world
the secreting seeds
of a fruiting pomegranate.
I am her despoiler of silk sheets,
she, a font of arousal
baptizing a love-song.
wind-moles have tunneled
through the daffodil rings
stems are broken
yellow bells and trumpets
fly in a mute sky
the third month
is a wayward despoiler
it stomps on the newly come
the strong survive and persist
until the lion yawns
temporarily bored with its play
one fine day
mild doe-eyed visitors
meander among cotton wool clouds
the lion dreams in his sleep
the next day arrives as his nightmare
here in the havens it is a time for tornados
the earth is burgeoning
greening so tenderly
a perilous time
if the new born shoots
if the new birthed and cradled
escape all the runaway winds
the lion my at last
lay down with the lambs
to guard them
from its own hungers
For fiercest queens, the finest pedigree,
Begetter and bestower of all lauds;
For foulest plagues, the fairest remedy,
Despoiler and destroyer of all frauds.
Revered for rectitude, renowned for laurels,
You helped reform the world to honest fame;
Reviled as sinister, renounced on morals,
The world deformed you to mendacious shame.
Now candid trade’s betrayed by blackened graft,
And harmless wit’s harangued by hurtful wile,
And simple skill’s arraigned by compound craft,
And vulgar pride's maintained by vulpine guile.
The grossest lies all get averred for gain
Since humblest truth became impugned and slain.
These eyes see more
Than you realize;
They see the hurt you hide
They see the lies you live
They see the shame you deny
They see the want for what you shouldn't have.
These eyes I got from you,
My birthday gift
The only thing you ever gave me
That didn't come with some terrible price.
They will remember you
They will burn into themselves one day
In a mirror, a final torture
Of seeing your far reflection in themselves.
Give me back my eyes,
Despoiler of my innocence.
You don't deserve to have them too,
After you've taken everything else.
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