Westwind

Nature Sings Louder Than The Parthenon

Grant Durando

Thirty-three years ago my hand went limp

and began a lump sum settlement with the end

 

lilies

opened up to sing the opera

written on his death bed to you:

“Sing for me, I’m dying of thirst”.

Short skirts say nothing about Fibonacci

pleating and pleading for terminal

roses; supplanting foundations

that only existed for yesterday

curling up to reveal a naked core

that pops like a blister when I

need to needle mark it.

 

Hide it! Yes! Hide it!

I walked to the florist yesterday,

ordered a bouquet for you tomorrow.

I knew I’d be gone  
flowers wilt on my stoop

while I sleep alone.

 

Look at the buds!

Think they’ll live until spring

bring leaves to camouflage the cracked

shoes left just inside the door?

 

My feet hurt

I can’t walk anymore.

 

Yes!

I’ll get a drink, extra shot in Belize,

take your skirt off and hide the frieze.

You and your petals noiselessly sprawl

over the length of history obscured by a pall.

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