I am near
the pit and the pond
where dwells the ancient
upon blades of grass, cut
with paperweight and mangled exposure.
I’m near to them they say,
under salutatory trumpet stands
politely whispering thunder for
augmented trials
for allamanda didicoi
receiving an estimate,
a count.
where have you?
was there
under curtains of asphalt
made by libations of rain
sorted to attire for men’s leisure
where red and green won’t work
or compound the slavery
with the final touch
of their masked indifference
on the market board
in the furnace
for allamanda pits
and darkened persuasions
a guide, a leaf turned sideways
along the carpet of green trials
for uncertain stance in alabaster trajectories
sung for certain
for four leaves in winter
upon disclosure
of our heart’s withered intent.
I’ll do better
under grass curtains
for inexhaustible refrains
on salutatory allegro fountains
for salutatory tenacula houses
in the deep thalassic rains.