PRIMAVERA
A poem is perishable and,
like it,
so much of life is spent
in intervals --
the jarring second
regaining consciousness,
a post-mortem flick
of the lank equestrian eyelid
that signals, morning's first crepuscular move.
. . . a little salad consciousness
about the tumescent room
with the sentient purr of a Cat,
her musky oils
a green verdure
lapping primordial scent
to engross a little readiness
as the day progresses
to its oedipal stage
and arrested development.
10
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