I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing…
–East Coker
Flowers bloat on cue
split and spread and multiply
down here is growing too
over my fertile milky heart
yearly affront of sultry sun
streets amok with living noise
I am not of them
mocking finger of spring in my face
talisman in silken pouch
crystal herb and rosary
but the deities are at the beach
hopped in jeep for a jaunt uptown
and who can blame them
now guess the species
my blood is warm but I lay eggs
both fur and feathers
drape webbed hands
do you give up
is that why you flee
from my spreading shade into
the blinding streets into
the flower-filled afternoon?