in the afternoon
the iron post lamp flickers on
not a moment too soon
white lace lines a shop front window
‘neath the elderberry cakes

as the train pulled out
I remarked at your hair
pressed up to the filthy glass
and you turned
alabaster throat
a golden apple swan

I would gladly stroke
that antelope sized eagle
with a broom and rope
if you harness here
some strength for me as I
flit about the evergreens dear

little premature
but below my navel
thrums a slow and a delicate bloom
christ not
I would surely collapse
I would bury my face in cement

still, a novel thought
I close my eyes
and we're there on your father's porch
town talk
bearing down on our necks
as we tend to the blossoms and the land

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