Nature Sings Louder Than The Parthenon
Thirty-three years ago my hand went limp
and began a lump sum settlement with the end
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.
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.