Suspended on a string,
While the cries of cats and children sound the same thing,
The dogwood's always losing its bloom again
Fading purple as your prose
It's designed to contain.
We pluck immaculate sentences,
Finding inmates in the ruins
Of the swamp, the soup of nature, with its ineluctable virtues
Blowing blissfully beyond the page.
The paper shivers on the yellow sill.
We're trapped in our needing
Like chicklets, with moss for hair,
Run down the donnybrook to the pond,
The awkward out-of-time dance called following.
