Sunflower
I face my sun
my own face petalled bright
no legs to run; my thoughts still light
spiralled, convex and yellow as him
my features coloured as earth
bearing no semblance of sin
at him I stare, no features as sweet nor fair
as either of us, down or on high
sweet flower my seeded eyes bear
one to die; one surely to fly.
Hiss by my Window
Must we see the things we love to see them?
the feeling a gauze they lay upon
like gentle lies drawing sweet, nearer, steeper,
when the night comes.
Days, I am told, don’t often hide these things
when the grass blows cool and
the wind sears the other, not I.
When the ring beneath my sleeve likens
me to the sun, and cheers latent summer.
Now the grace of glass in the hall trills;
leaves spake down in love for each other
and suppose a rest in their weald.
April Showers
April showers know not when
or how
or ache like cool wooden wind
and the tolling of breath on
breath and pages like waves
on their own.
They strike into the gutter
Outside the bar where
The day threatens to swallow
Moonbeam and thirst for June
beach.