68: Flowers shorn off bowers of wholly living signs —
losing my head over you
inhabiting death seconds before you, around you..
I’m a zealot about knowing when nature’s
bastard signs are vital, not recreational, a map of nature’s store.
Before the golden tresses Arvo Pärt is chafing: making no summer of flowers, no second
life & oblique as you — hours in fair defiance, making another green
for subsiding in attrition, missing you, composing around you.

Your beauty.. new roses, a second head..