III

Anti-Poetry

 

Eighty One

You made a warm afternoon.

You were magnetic and cornucopic:

Insatiable flames make new shoots bloom,

Summer gifts gushing from the valley;

Never burning enough in celestial blinding night,

You're tarted up like a whore;

But there is no eyeshadow can obscure your light,

This vibrant dance with the fruits of chance;

This season gives before there is asking,

Sprouting firm boughs giving more than wealth;

Naked, languid sustenance,

You grew ever new from ripe soil:

Clutching forever, holding long breathes,

If there is life past death, heaven is permanently this.

 

contra Bill Pascoe, Eighteen