Thursday, 9 August 2012

Deadheading #2

This Sunday sky slopes, petulant, towards dusk—
must I quit the weekend’s kites, the summer’s starlings?

Cicadas hissing and chirruping like
mechanical bedsprings bouncing for the 4th of July;

the sky turning Mexican lime,
geranium pink, mandarin.

You breathe an air as sweet as Werthers Originals
and blow candied smokerings, hula-hooping
round the airport towers.

Must this working week lasso your heart with laptop strings?
Why don’t you fall to bed and stroke your softness, sweetheart?

Wake and tramp your untrammeled feet to the twenty
destinations your map has lost in its folds.

Maybe, out there, there’s no hot white seam
running between pleasure and penance.

Maybe the sky doesn’t know that it’s Sunday.

Give yourself up to the drift of dandelion clocks
and cackle at the grandfathers of time.

You’re ready.

Ready to web your feet, to let your
responsibilities fall to the ground.

Deadheaded summer roses.

Just so much mulch the soil’s already prepared to swallow.

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