It’s a day for gedeihen;
The gardens in me grow.
Behind my eyes
Sunflowers spit fat corns and drop them.
Lolling Angel’s Trumpets in sedated jubilation
And tender tendrils of Morning Glory curlicue
Through my pupils.
The wet snails of my cochleae
Slimingly uncurl themselves on fresh dew leaves
Whose edges caterbrows crunch and mumble.
Close my eyes
And they roll themselves in shrouds,
Blink and they emerge again from crusty hulls
They are blue.
It is blue-butterfly day here in Spring.
There were pumpkins in my neck.
In fall they swoll, popped, and scattered seeds–
Orange sommersprossen. Schrumpfedremains.
The teeth are clicking beetles
Ecru scarabs, old and measurable totems
Past whom creased mauve worms grub
Smirking and mocking at stoicism.
Swarms of Maybugs populate my brainstalk.
Small green grazers there
Give ant milk
Unmixed with the meat
That the Maybugs take.
Slugs lie heaped and grey in a hollow.
They sleep. From time to time they twitch.
Outside, the wild wind waves the hay.