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.

by Barbara Guest

Notes from Across the Blue Couch