Her future confessions of present tormented love longings
this poisonous fantasy and finally fetal crouch state in the poppy fields
Has it defeated me?
Like a bacillus from the war, trapped inside a rubber gas mask
pore and carried through the generations in a trunk,
her dormancy.
Conscious only of strong curiosity over the outcome I am on stretchers in pieces.
Late bloomers,
exotic virginities droop so sweet almost cloying.
Reborn in her the traits of extinct beauties,
something in the flush,
the flush of favorite flowers before their fading
asperities thought lost,
fluted folk strains tweezered from symphonic beds by ethno-horticulturists,
nature past recovered.
There are no poachers where there is no private property. Relationships are not estates, no more are engagements, and marriages are blunders into legalistic coils from which cries come to the poacher for release. No limb so strong.