Wednesday, March 30, 2011


The others have perverse minds; I abide
In middling envy.  Unlike March, April
Aspires to nothing but shoots: the seeds
Applaud themselves into greenness.

We make love to intensify the cruelty.
At the bar:  a man who has become
His beard.  His bejeweled companion
Keeps on about Jesus. The beard
Is making her do it. It would

Make for a tear-stained sunset
If I staggered outside with a beard
Of my own, a minor beast, obese
With calculus, with glycogen,

And turned, bird-shadowed, for home.

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