Cut Flowers
rush to cut them
the last
to be sure the last
before the much-tolled mid-november storm
the wonder of their still unfolding
this late
with such abundance
inside
packets of pastels
deeper sheens of leaves like oils
petals like tight bolts of velvet
my eye gluttons on the bounty
the cabbagehead of fullblown english rose
winks from the other room
now peach now pink
then of a sudden
as if affrighted by the tearing wind
whipping the canes outside
it drops its petals in a golden rain
the others too
no matter what the heat of this womb room
unmindful of my care
droop
fade by the half-hour
struck in sympathy of pain of perishing
under the vampire frost feeding at will
outside
Airborne
The sky seduces
imperiously like an old hand at love.
Imagine, “Officer, I was watching clouds”
after you’ve plowed headlong
into a line of cars mired in traffic
pushed them like dominoes into each other.
In an uncanny concordance
smacking of other worlds
the music on the car radio rises to its crescendo
as clouds part before the moon
and she
cow-jumped and stepped-on
full face
still looks
intact
tugs at my womb
pulls every hair upon my body
up
over the wheel
through windshield
into that Dutchmaster sky
so voraciously possessing
space
that all else
is written off
at the edges as droll miniature