Rosemary oil is for memory. And the little blue electric light on my desk tries
to make up for the season’s darknesses.
That’s not a typo.
A man lashes out because he can’t escape himself
while I can’t find myself.
I’m not afraid of curses anymore: I’ve stopped apologizing.
I’ve emptied my pockets of posies – for some of us
it never was what we half-desired
it to be from the distance of our daydreams, linking us backward
in search of a future significance – and some of us
have emptied our pockets of withered violets
and of stones, too.
The academics get it all wrong. No season takes its leave peacefully
Conscious or not
The melting ice buzzes like the fat bee seeking shelter under the leaves
in the yes/no of late winter
like a fat bee caught under a Kilner jar at the waning edge of summer.
I slip off the beaked mask and I dare to touch the purple bodies
of the Amethyst Deceiver
which as the season ends is easily confused
with the deadlier Lilac fibrecap.
I hand one off to the furious runner
and I utter the truth that will catch up with him
when I finally find myself
deep under the soil
Thank you, Richard.
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This is inutterably brilliant.