after Frederick Seidel
more than anything, it is that this place
is cradled, caressed by the land,
the bloody edge, land of forms and phantoms,
where the sun dies, where things end,
so, what to do but wander,
insist upon verdancy in the geographic middle
of things, reap the gifts of litte beginnings,
of bloom: callery pears crack against each other
year after year: tarpaulin slapping construction’s
lumber: break open, anew:
perennials are planted in community gardens
along Boyle and Laclede; if you walk amongst
the mews you will find outdoor cats licking
at the water falling through terraced fountains of wood,
thatch spread amongst bluegrass lawns, boneyards
with crabgrass and brick-dark palazzi enshrouded
by wintercreeper, porticoes flanked with leaden glass,
casks of single-malt proudly-local,
the slow-roving dimensions of grasping,
desire burning beneath every fire-swallowing sternum.
- The End of Spring - 7th August 2021