christmasbeetle

We wear ourselves Like Greek tragedy, Robed up and fated. Convinced some- Where along the line (our adolescence, most likely) there was a conspiring against. And we convince ourselves This is unique. That we are Therefore destined to the Sympathy of Henbane. A rotten deal falling On a rotting apple. And the sooner realized, The sooner overcome, That we are not a Soliloquy.

Although the mosquito does not appear to hum near my ear, I find a volcano, A welling up, A rosebud where itch confuses itself with pain. (If one pinches long enough, It begins not to hurt). Where there was stitch, a scar, And before both, just itch, the way One feels about many things: chocolate, Kissing. Many things resemble flowers. Teakettles remark at their poetics. Gyroscopes spin like breeze-blown pedals. I spray them with my decanter, Marigolds, Wind-flower, Amaranth. (The time for tending is always nigh). I’ll be the butterfly Fluttering by the trees This way, that way, On the breeze.