Late May/One Eye Open

His arm is not too heavy
and now that a coolness
has snuck across the border
of morning, our bodies are
like the wine a good maître d
knows to serve chambré.

Even that I have to die
cannot abolish this day’s joy –
all too glorious to be directed
by the hands of misanthropic clocks
[and their au-to-cra-tic-tocs]
here, perched on who-cares-what-hill
by the sea – beyond the tyranny of city –
I wonder that any choose to live
where there are no trees
to house the avian calliopes
that should greet all mornings
such as these. Breathing creatures
must have leaves to filter air
and violent light – the sun’s
a bastard on concrete. A wonder
any choose to bear that stiffling heat.

.

.

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