Not Exactly February 2nd

1 July 2020

Off-kilter heave, squeeze the blood,

                           between so many muffles:

                           cloth, skin, bone, fat

       Clasp threads of ambition, that have

                           frayed, dis articulated,

       (as morrow beds the line of bass,

                           punctuates our longing:

                           reedy. auto-tune),

       (as Tara sweeps the Little Bear,

                           snoring on the lawn:

                           straw-combed).

 

Tried to find the hollow, down below umbilicus

                          clasping sacral arc:

                          eluding pin's point,

       (as marble softens, slate decays,

                           blossom ball of leek

                           begins to topple,

                           even as it flowers).

       (and leaves of time, pressed in clay

                           display the smile

                           worn by mistress of the sphynx,

                           unblinking midst haboob).

The crumbs have all been carried off by ants

                           leaving us to circle

                           as if ground hogs.