Tuesday, April 30, 2013

HAWTHORNE OUTGROWN

Romance might look 
like all wild woods 
at first—some fervid
uncurbed, hysterical 
knots of old New
England,

but the real book's 
a scraggy bit 
more like this land-
scaped sprawl that I'm
skating by on—

here, a would-be 
shock of violets
crabgrass, upstart 
dandelions, 
allowed to crowd 
the patterned assembly of 
bought-in-
bulk chunks of limestone,

there, a thornless 
tuft of tulips, multi-
colored hand-
picked bulbs swaying 
just a little
in planned rows to the laughing
jazz of docile wind,

and—back 
at home, the way 
she left me lying warm
and dark this morning;

a spontaneous kiss 
with prefabricated implications,

the new but
same old way she flew 
apart from me today—

un-proud but 
on-time,

intentionally, but not
on purpose.

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