On the eastern ***** of the glen, where the bees slept
and the breeze kept vigil-
you could see the Summer trumpet and submit to Beauty
With too many acorns for the Atavist.
But all the fiddle-backs to tickle
your midnight fancy.  
Spruce garnets like Lanterns
of Warm Forever.

Unfit for flowers, but always a Season on Stilts
And opiates.

The cars are parking where the goslings go.
Now the aluminum can is shiny
in the ice on the asphalt
like a Valkyrie.
Little tombstones and caviar
ugly in the barrel.
where the chamber
has a bullet to kiss you with
or a Truth to Put a God
in your Hand.