2.


Thistle -- I stand corrected. And even mermaids

enjoy soup. We are   not quite yet. Saxifrage --
its leaves sometimes arranged in a rosette. Heroics ("he
has your hands"). Admiration for ambitious
daisies -- how could I ever? ask.
We can depend on the weather. I’d prefer
to be the girl on the swings. Uprooted, pressed. Your mouth
of the River Cashen, gulls and salmon.
I can’t stop mythologizing --

the mistake: thinking    this will make anything

easier. Sober sense    is merely

human. We counted on    the rain --
what’s important is that it’s not pretty
and knows it. Grows
the tough or sideways, the more determined.
Mewed, or cold-blooded aquatics. The muddest thick.
The weave circumvents the metaphoric door.
What I have weakly gleaned staring at the shipwreck
(not yet), the drowned, our shored ruins --

the slurp, gasp, and    grope of it. Salty,
but not scaley (to be equal parts hex and fish).

Hair done up in penelope-knots --
seven stars round the loom. Where
we kissed in the snow is a sidewalk now
in summer. The mistake: thinking
this will make you a story I heard.
The graveyard tree is also immortality.
Neither a dionysian suffering fuck nor
a manic fenced martyr. How was I ever --

after a dull start,    sunnyspells. Another gorgeous mourning --

glory, it bores me.    A picture of our back garden in rain.

Search with insistence    for the incision -- the blood
sometimes resembles sanguineflowers. Your sign.
My anixiete du soir, with brown bread buttered.
(But her, indeed.) Figures
in an old stained glass window. Belfry,
clockworks -- I’ll dress it up nice, press it in heavy pages.
I’ll couch it. Corsage -- or did we mean corset?
Evensong -- leave. Mind your step, uneven ground, ruins

about the yard -- prickly    purples. Euphonious etudes unpruned.