The stink of us so undignified—
the endgame of bloom.

We will lose the sun,

struck and disassembled

lightly down and crawling like a worm.

This earth it is a banquet and laid on its table we—
a puncture in the wound room, crude and obvious.

The raving lunatics they are upon us,
but we are raving too.

the snow goes to the gallows of a warm grass and what survives

the snow goes to the gallows of a warm grass and what survives

~

The deepest redress is a thick and fulsome snow.
Peaceful prevail of afternoon, looking out
at this bluish marvel the air.

The snow realizes you a body, puts on you a hat,
tombs you in its second nature, with consequence
of sepia, a leaking dusky blue.

The snow fumbles at your borders,
wants a way in.

In the snow we are angelic

and it’s not discouraging in fact it is marvelous

when the snow has its arms around us

and we walk the streets as if safe.

You’re a child, even in midlife.
The snow clouds us in peppery breath
and the air comes fresh.

It comes and goes and comes again,
it doesn’t aim for durability
it accumulates for the sake of it
and doesn’t want to last.

The snow, I envy it,
it will vanish
but it doesn’t care,

it’s its own garden,

its own cool chalky paint—

kicks up

an alabaster splendor

then retreats without complaint.

~

As if it were a heaven:

the snow my subject!
my pristine—

what girl doesn’t want to lie down in it.

The snow has a thin mouth,
it has a salve in it, the snow,

I hereby nominate it for my favorite embroidery,
it is so many things

(there’s no surviving this storm—

even the snow won’t survive it, and it is the storm)

~

The snow goes to the gallows
of a warm grass and what survives?

Seasons grow immodest,
the bullet sun does parch

and drive us migratory
in search of new and fertile fields.

The long drought makes blaze the plankton
makes smoke the oceans

and insincere the governments—
a demise indelicate.

We’re in a deep jelly now
no cause for applause

but try a little clemency
my body is warm today, and yours,

we have this small span of time
and in this way we’re millionaires.

Bright colors we make when pressed, see?
Basta! dawdling on the edge again that’s me.

~

So I told the sky it should stay blue

told my daughter she should stay breathing

told my love he should and we would

as the monster storms showed their teeth

and the fires flared and the wines

weren’t plum enough to numb us

and our leaders’ virulent egos seethed

(people dying off as if it were nothing

to leave this planet as if it were a breeze)

don’t blame the wisteria

don’t blame the wisteria

~