Constant sibillance of a cicada, hidden
in an oak tree's curtained crown, his
hiss like a little silver scythe, it is
strictly historical, it is a timeline,
seething (yours, mine). The loopy garden
swells, meanwhile, beneath his minatory
contrail. Everything expands, full-sail...
the season shimmies into flower... then
slows... slows down, a little more (slowly,
slower...) as if the famous ferris wheel
and cantering merry-go-round conceal
beneath their furious flurry (ply on ply)
full stop. The summa of some springing
theme. Unspoken axiology.
Lazarus arose, arose, and tendered his apology -
time's not what we suppose, suppose, O pondering
Horatios. The maps lead nowhere, seemingly.
The ancient iron of the rusted garden gate
is wrung with painful frets. A filigree
of curlicues, ordained to gradual decay.
Hobo loved his dead-end neighborhood.
He lay there buried in the weedy grass
until the stars unfolded. Let them pass,
pass. Flowers are immortal. Stood,
staggering. And then the voice in the rose
beckoned him close, close. Anemone,
muttered the wind. A measuring.
Mesmerized. Memorize how it goes.