All July’s so laissez-faire;
clouds cast
their dark nets like apostles
of grief, & a tongue’s shade, too,
can fall both ways:
paisley on felt,
or hibiscus on mohair –
there’s always the saying
& then, the softness
that doesn’t want to.
It’s a lot of guesswork,
the botanics of the body;
today, I walked as
elderberries’ blossoms filled the zebra
crossing like a horseback
I was riding
& I recall an article
on flies with nowhere
to land but a seam-
less lion. A strand
of prairie. Walked to my mother’s
house, to wait
again in her hip bone
like Lazarus. There in her garden,
I sat on my own chair instead.
I said, I know, I should be blooming.