Though symphony plays
and the snowdens of yesteryear fade
through small packets too tiny to see
the tiny pinprick in my bowels
gives me pause, though unrealistic.
The trees and bushes of spleen,
of surity –
remain their welcome dearth of flower.
They beckon with the promise of fruit after precious care-
and yet the gardener dozes.
in trying to question a smile,
there are made pistoning,
and why are girth and breadth of my neighbors field
and milk-white lenses so clouded-
perhaps, as you collapse, weak, you think:
“it’s been too long for regret”
“i’m more now”
and as long as either of those are true
you’ve done well.