Canadian as rhubarb pie, tart pucker sweet stale

Canadian as rhubarb pie, tart pucker sweet stale

there’s no trustworthy holding pattern for happy
veined bluebells timbales evicerate sun
at each unseen dawn they will leak dew

feeling unaccountable well I had an urge
to dock ears, make prosthetics for sows
from the many fine purses of last season

passing graves I stop in, not to stay,
(wrong denomination of death)
behind the sturdy wrought iron

some flush, some mound, some cave
buried under the lisp of wind licked grass
let’s make sexual this teensy death of strangers,

drab: the almost unreactive
silk flowers fade, petals drop
more forlorn for no good rot

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