The racing patter collides as rain.
Like your feathered heart
The quail breast hangs in the butcher shop.
Your ragged shame,
Dizzying to me like honeybees.
The snag and drawl of lavender
Weighing me down like brass.
And nothing ever stopped to tell me it was gone.
Not you,
Not the grey car of procession.
Afraid was I for lifeless flesh
That could not sing nor taste;
And yet, here I am
Soaked in too much knowing,
But as bright and free
As that lovely, trilling flutter.
Deirdre Brazenall 9/11/11
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