Abovering a city green

 

Force will
in time
be done to
house.

From wind
the push
surfaces
absent.

Lay tools
for forming
weather out
on a paillette.

No spangle leaves
dug lakes
"pretty day"
no wird.

I see what you say.

You see what you say?

Jonquils on the terrace
false.

Polystyrene pistils
as in the fingers
in a plastic crèche.

Memory is live.

Naturally selected lives,
the body of moment
is interior.

Youth simultaneously
betrays and belies
age, to the effect
that now one figure
controls the day.

It is invisible,
the huge hand of god.

We go golfing on off years
to offset the gathering shoots.

We mold life and build
topiaries as monuments
to walk around.

In my hand 3 stones
will symbolize
3 poems.

Your name is
ate.