We swam the lake in mid-November For a silly, madcap, dare. In the distance watched a figure. With a look of, despair… A man’s grimacing eyes, watched Fishing on the far bank
Your life is on a throne Of dust weathered-stone A whirlwind battered face With a mountain to climb Of the time Of the time Of the time Your voices a busted microphone
Curvaceous; white rose How—potently, aromatic It is to delve quite freely One’s passionate, nose Tasting; upon our tongues The madness of the bee… Who’ sumptuously,
I’ve seen those eyes before like pack-ice Residuary-melting, scraped off the floor Beats me how, an addict beats the count And rises; from the canvas once more.
