It takes about a year for Earth to breathe,
thinks Everyman. In sync with the seasonal
systole (stiletto of deep sexless chill)
he walks the cemetery (wraith with wreath).
The ghost of summer slowly swelled, the
music that would be sometime, emerging
with worms and tubers, burgeoning
from mud. Briefly, he beheld,
or scented... Primavera. Personified.
Playing hide-and-seek behind the torpid
furniture (canonical, solidified, salted
away with Lot's wife, unturning, beloved...).
Oddly, the greenhouse in the cemetery
goads him to dig a path out of the park:
like headache or paradox, the dark
riddle in the dusky skull (they will not bury
me today) rhymes with a dusty medicine
of zephyr wind. So the death-masque
of the harvest-night - Burgundian casque
of oaken wine - revolves (begin again, begin...).
Just me, all on muh lonesome, scribblin & sketchin. (Between Ross McDonald hardboiled #2 over easy with bacon, please. I had breakfast at the famous Modern Diner in Pawtucket, while reading The Moving Target. Felt like I was in a Borges story with a So.-New Eng. clamshell accent. There was a priest at the booth next door havin pancakes with about 8 parish womenfolk. Life is good. Ted Kennedy is President. Nothing will change for the heck of it.)