In the early morning light whose shade and tint
of chartreuse, jade and mint and celadon insinuate
themselves into the scents of his abundant verdure
(newly mown): a mix of flora and testosterone –
a blast of grassy Spring, a hint of skunkweed funk –
Daphne thinks he’s quite a hunk – before
he recommits himself to his green archetypal creed
and undergoes the swift experience of turning back
into his mossy leafy vine-y mobile signature man-tree –
though after he drinks yet another cauldron of green tea –
he sits and contemplates the role he is assigned
and finds it interesting that human beings need
so many symbols of the “pagan” – whatever pagan
possibly could mean. (He figured largely in the tarot
cards of Nancy Reagan.) It’s obscene, he thinks,
before he blinks and plink! – another thirsting bud
bursts up from some fast-thatching swatch.
Well, soon I shall be overgrown – tomorrow,
once again, new-mown, he muses – philosophically
scratching his deciduous assiduously sprouting crotch.
Then (so to speak) he “leaves” – resumes his watch.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment