All things come to a
(you thought I would say ‘end’ I’m saying: fierce tomorrow)
bitter rendezvous: it snows in spring in Sacramento; that’s the
not truth or ticket
but buds flaming from tall
trees I donŐt know their names I remember all the names back home:
Dogwood, Magnolia, Forsythia: I see none of that now I don’t know it’s coming
(or going?) because
there isn’t order to the drift:
solemn blossoms leaving their roots; Oh, the line break in a tossing tree.
I left home like all Virginians do, well-bred and gussied-up to meet
not their maker but their man:
not God but another father,
not a catalog of lovers or teachers or employers,
but the man inside the little girl who gargled to keep the night away.
She’s here now not
trying to make ends meet
or making to end new meetings, but thighs all over the tree trunks
rubbing in attempt to lighten the polleny load, so many particles
in the back of her throat;
such a puffy eyelid.