Barbara Guest

A Reason

That is why I am here
not among the ibises. Why
the permanent city parasol
covers even me.
 
            It was the rains
in the occult season. It was the snows
on the lower slopes. It was water
and cold in my mouth.
 
           A lack of shoes
on what appeared to be cobbles
which were still antique
 
          Well wild wild whatever
in wild more silent blue
 
          the vase grips the stems
petals fall    the chrysanthemum darkens
 
          Sometimes this mustard feeling
clutches me also. My sleep is reckoned
in straws
 
           Yet I wake up
and am followed into the street.
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