The pine tree has got Venus in her hair, a purple vine
Round her December sun-scarce society.
Look how the Clouds are corralling,
They're teaching men how to behave,
As the minister comes in his coveted toy
And employ us with vegetation:
There's no rush, no abject urgency,
It looks promising, the celebration, I mean.
We brought flowers for him, and a gamosa,
And he, with his goodwill, lowered his head.
That day, we sang in cohesion for him,
We gave him more than what we'd for ourselves.
But now he's scared to lose it. He has locked himself up
- He's in jail now.
Even at home he's at jail. At work he peeks
Into the aperture for something more acetic
Then pops the flowers
On his arid head, lustful as a baby.
I wish the wind could carry her abroad,
Bridge the gap where hope goes.
So she could run her fingers - and examine
Those twigs&glue, the hinges
That supports this zealotry - Life
That is, maimed, but flourishing.
But she's been sharp like a sheathed knife,
And so he welters in her pool
And cease to leave
(If he stops coming - will this love decay?).
Leaves are falling on the moldy floor
But even the old may situate a chair and be hysterical!
And if children dare, they might taste it bittersweet
Running around her scrawny, wrinkled, autumn body.
Because that's life -
In the together dying,
And dancing along might be versatile
Than living quietly, and dying.
Venus must've heard the news, must've cared little too: about her, another petty heart:
The Moon, who's clumsy at hiding scars, appearing through
The Majoritarian Glass: The supreme price for a Concubine
Of Sun.
She eclipses 'round her feminity - Fracturing with a shovel -
That Pink skin - That durability of a Memory -
That curiosity of waves when they kiss the ships -
One
At a time - And again
Echoing like atoms in their rooms
Doing what residents in secrecy do,
Afraid of a power as public as explosions.
