Plums and vine (as the Atlantic is green)
intone the heavy church wall
with errant sprigs, so Heaven sent
they are big with earthly passion
racing for the sky.
Madonna Poverta in her midst
with the pulpit clutching Light -
so gnarled, like bush, that each crevice
reeks with stone
all stooped under such worldly avarice.
[36]
PERHAPS
Perhaps the sky once was shadows,
the moon lisped 'mongst April's song.
Now, those warm lips ease
departing sorrow
like pressed flowers
emptied from hallowed ground.
[37]
APPROACHING THIRTY (Lauds and Matins)
Laconic tears or Botticelli's Venus
holding the years
like tresses
in a wistful pose.
Tenebrous youth accosted
by callow Time
bleeds the heart
with spring aloes.
No comfortable shibboleths
to restrain the wriggling polyps
in the skin or nestling hair.
Gerundive in movement,
each particled whimper
of the clock surrounds
a cloistered second
poised about the bearded target.
As far as you know, nothing unusual.
A total of eight hundred months
but grammar school sums,
spiel & mileage
to drift across a lifetime.
At thirty, the best half of the potage
is gruel hand drawn from
the sabulous pot.
[38]