i. to peek upon the washing is its own secret rite
the first bath of an oddly promising spring
easily births its own peppery cascading joy-
what might have speckled in the constant winter
rushes into the copper stream and, lonely, drifts away:
the pesky mites that might have ravaged bloody roses
clamor onto crafty rafts of golden straw and, clutching, float away-
they will not burrow in the clay-skinned perfection of ageless models,
they only want to, quietly, stroke themselves and drift away.
ii. windows are made of abysmally slow liquid
reflections of a dead branch grasping,
held by green hands that will not let it drop:
these trees inside the water
that hints of other currents.
in the dry season the rooks come out to play-
it is not the dry season now:
the release of pent-up yellow on the weedy hill
has its own inner sense of play.
a shadowy plumb of straightened lines,
in the sinking house of stark soffits:.
skinned knees on cracked concrete are a plum reward.
iii. it's hard to deny the cyclical
there is no mortared vault of berries yet,
inscribed in autumn with the thumbing of beads
or the angled facts of a hooded ghost:
the jeweled sconce of red and blue and green
plastered in a room that has drifted obscene.
through the years no angle stays true:
the pedestal font begs for the dirt of your ablutions
and the adulation only, if at all, reflects back at you.
there may be a green salad at the picnic next door.