sonnets, lusty
paeans filled with flowers—
come midsummer, prime
detritus like this just
come midsummer, prime
detritus like this just
proliferates
like clover. But break
out the backhoe;
mow it all down;
rip it up
by the roots in
a huff, if you must—
any move
as such becomes part
of the dumbshow.
is the glaze crack
on a red and rusty
barrow—the last line
Even your most
heartless, narrowed
burn on lazy bees and finches
is the glaze crack
that clinches an authentic
grecian urn; it's
the left eye
of a blackbird—one of many
raindrops gathered
on a red and rusty
barrow—the last line
before the turn.
