from a Photograph
Flesh longed, at last, to be so impregnated
and so inseminated, like a flower is
pollinated by the breeze … (Or bees).
So, too, the heart called out for deeper comfort
and then man’s soul called out for something more
after the body had been violated
and then the mind left easy on that score.
We are all flowers the sunlight cherishes,
our styles made sensitive to every stigma
along the towpath, and beneath the trees.
Beside the willows, and upon the shore,
we gasp for shade and animal fulfillment
in every way, on every outraged floor,
yet never shall we know such perfect ease.
Featured in Issue Two of New Lyre Magazine