May - Count Zero

The only bugs seems to be these buxom, busy,

Breeding bees who appear as charmed as we by

The flowers on your dress.

The evening breeze wears

A perfume sweet enough to ask in the room and warm

Enough I don’t presume it’s keeping secrets.

It rustles

Each of these tree’s fleece, each of these tall boys, green

And obese, with their uncombed hair, humming peace

And making me full within.

The sun knows only to be serene,

And hasn’t learned to scream holes in the screen which lines

This carriage clean and protects this fresh, moist, skin of May.

May.

I know I’ll lose you, you’re only here one inch out of

Every year, and every time you disappear before I learn how

To work your faucets.

I wish I could stop these bland etudes

And savor-blessed with an aptitude for full-figured gratitude

Each second, each stitch on your corset, May.