My mother first told me about you when I was five
and you had already been, for tens of thousands of years,
jumping the glittering silver hoops of time.
The first bad boy
Your boots cut sharp from an azure sky in Arizona
traipsing across the ballsy daffodils
who sprang up too early.
You sucked the butter sunshine from their bonnets
then roped their withered stems
to climb on my windowsill.
The magnificent glassblower
Carving on the pane
white horses and tiny rosebuds
whatever you thought would charm me.
You carved silver sunbursts like firecrackers
and train tracks like the ones you rode in on
when you weren’t freefalling on a snowflake toboggan.
Year after year, you carved spider webs and transparent coffee filters.
You cut thousands of kaleidoscope patterns –
microscopic windows into a billion ballrooms
where you promise me a future.
But I can’t get old with you.
With spring you’ll grow sickly
and the sex will get boring.
So what if you spin me a diamond ring –
I’ll be shivering on our wedding day.
I’ll slice scabs of your handiwork
from my windshield on bitter mornings
and my life will begin to twilight
while yours is still in full bloom.