like all wild woods
at first—some fervid
at first—some fervid
uncurbed, hysterical
knots of old New
England,
but the real book's
a scraggy bit
more like this land-
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,
bulk chunks of limestone,
there, a thornless
tuft of tulips, multi-
colored hand-
picked bulbs swaying
just a little
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.
