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April is here with

handfuls of pink blossom

dove calls, summer talk,

babies on park benches

Iris pushing from winter glom

April is here this year

with memories of you.

 

Nothing stirs in the darkness

sentry of night

full bodied with the moon

she walks on  empty city street

finds him listening

Spanish eyes, dreadlocks to his waist,

kissing him feels fine

she looks him through and through to find

a heat wave of amnesty

sugar in his pocket,

unpeeling from his arms a dusty drive

alone again she dreams of red stirred fires

alone again she dances.

 

April brings recognition

her senses roll into

a temple of desire

she opens the door

lights incense,

brings perfumed offerings.

 

This moment sunlight glints from leaves

acid green buds bursting into living

rake tilling, small child singing

light shut off with clouds Sunday sounds

the garden is a myth of future flower

earth simple richness

lilacs, fuchsia for her hair

grass like tormented wicker

and the white doves calling.

 

 

At the corner of the waste ground amongst the tin cans and sheared debris of other peoples parts you light a match for change.  Around you nature tends its carnivorous garden, Venus fly traps devour passing insects, and weeds grow rife to camouflage florid flowers: at the corner of the waste ground amongst the tin cans and other lifetime’s debris you light a match.

Sprite against a white sky you stood for some kind of justice, words spume, speckled spittle chapped lips, frozen voice, tight with your meanders desire branded on your brow nothing cleansed.  Ashes fly into a fickle wind, a dead match flares in no man’s land: in the corner of the waste ground I watch you turn and flicker, gather other peoples debris raise your face to a cold wind and with no expectation of conclusion, you light a match.