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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.