The Bower


She assumes for all she’s gladdened,

her mouth sugared and her frock patched with clementine stain

That her world is ripe joy.


We do not talk,

for the joy is hers alone.


Indulged by untimely dusk, she clutches JACK KEROUAC by the spine,

pages snapping into the silence.


The bridal moon turns a natural eye to the wild pools of sunflowers,

the bloodshot summerhouses and discarded Cola cans

and the air strokes like heaviest satin.


Ambling three slim fingers through her hair, champagne and tangled,

She does not discern me any more than the low cicada hum,


and I must consider if she is at all


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