Zazie's Acreage


Great Gifts Cannot Be Given Consciously
Your hair a fainting tree
inlaid with blue veronica
ruling a nympharmaceia
in the butter dream of Spring, we kiss
yellow badge melting in the inner lid
formed from a fallen insect wing.
But the laurels and the humble pine
in loathsome fellets of hot sprung glances
so we practice the edges:
trees in a forest thinking of trees
& the tindering mist, the patron’s small torch
& the 3 frightened guards to paint them red.
Where the dog’s green shadow falls
upon the passing diamond
Piranesi measures the shadow
in an embrace which smears, slightly milky to the ear
cigarette indistinguishable from the pruner
against the hedges of mesmeric tapping out hallooos….
Yet nature is our collaborative divagation
found in a clearing, late in the war, still breathing.
Still rumors evolve from the pretty dresses
of the leaves violated by their own forest
then lulled into the nympharmaecia
as I long for the white arm of sleep
to build a nest within, to bore within
the heart-cartilage blaze of your limbs
diamonds which can only snake away
to the police X-ray and/or Andromeda
and so we practice the edges:
trees in a forest thinking of trees.