Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Yellow No. 1 & 2

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