Through all of the sweet myths of April, the dial tone of defeat bloomed

By the second act.  The first act was flawed, a black crow with a keen memory for falling
In love with the coyote.  The third act was a luxury not yet defined.  In the middle of things,
The promise of heat — the moment before a kiss or the idea entering a room – book-ended
By wings, or parenthesis, geography of the shell and the gem contained within.  The artichoke,
For example.  There were no numbers to remember and my mechanical heart and body,
Full of straw, was neither a fiction nor a fortune.  Like open frocks and busty women on the cover of a Harlequin,
There was much walking and a song about wisteria.  I began to sing.  Threads, a shot
Of yellow daffodil, candy wrappers and dusty veils.  Birdsong and canyon were complicit.  I’ll meet you
. Half in a trance, I meandered in a garden of incomplete thoughts,
An alley of half-truths, only to greet a green crescent moon, eating away

At the sky.  Or vice versa?  Blue wrote a song for her stalkers, slipped it in a bottle.  She spied
The flowering panels of information, spinning narratives into a thread of gold.  Ahead, old,
Blossoming, ripening to rot.  After midnight, the chord was cut. Set afloat at last,
The secret in a tiny ship of flayed sails, white flames, ear tilted out to sea.  Such a miniature poem!
To you who are so April, I relinquish this song which no longer serves us.  My love song of Turquoise,
Billy Goat Plum, Flannel Flower, Fringed Violet and Jacaranda, sitting on the tip of my tongue.
Morning begins with a scratching from the other side of the wall:  Time to go outside, my neighbor calls.
This must be kindness, this amount of purple, my finger dipped in ink, a paddle, an oar, my scull, a word
Stuck to a leaf.  My neighbor calls:  It’s nearly noon, my darling doll.  And now, it’s time to cross.