THE RIVER CUTS A CHANNEL
People with money but no fortune
or stomach for the life of an albatross,
watch him soar on self made wings,
fetch the dingy redness
of morning's, first catch
with a long necked bottle
he calls the captain
9
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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.
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