The frank, open face
of the daffodil,
replicating itself
in thickets and glades
like someone cloned
his own happiness
but forgot to turn
the sequencer off
A childish trick
that nonetheless
loosens my grudge,
bit by bit,
until it's lanced,
sliding down the blade
of this buttery, lovely
happy thing
----------------
Every breath,
my dandelion wish
to be swept up
by whim or lark
and disassembled,
sold for parts
to any puzzle
in search of a piece
like this grass,
that leaf
the eyelash on
your cheek
