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

. 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.

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