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Dec 2019
Nothing can be said from the lip of the sun,
To array with full redress the wind-flayed waters
Of the river-run and the naked broomrape of Spring,
Absolve naiads of their blued minstrelsy in venous scream,
Or pour a yellow songbird from the gold-rimmed cup of war.
Nothing is said in the liver-spotted ground of rain-ghosted gardens,
Where love’s monument is a blot of dried flowers and grayed thorns.
Chris Saitta
Written by
Chris Saitta  54/M/Virginia
(54/M/Virginia)   
  719
     Fawn, featherfingers, Desire, Max Neumann, vb and 4 others
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