To W.

The hidden branches she likes to pick,

Where she can blossom, and stay-

Poetry, a most whimsical flower-

Moon, don't just watch the force,

But grab it, help yourself,

And drop your shyness, drop

A bastard afternoon of white dresses

Naked smiles, let other limbs touch you

While your light moves the grass

From your eyes, and your soul

Is running away from life -

Let them mistake you for a sun

That bites at other words

Those naked smiles,

Just leave them alone,

Mothers, and demise, if fractious houses

Are crying out when other voices hound them,

And spring gets them drunk,

Or shots you in the back while you collect

Shards of water, of light, and boldly think

In due time they’ll give you words-

See, honeysuckle and clematis

Are laughing like crazy,

So different from you, they don’t trust

The promises of a mentally unstable manager-

Nor do they trust the time when they gather,

Stronger than underwood, or foliage

Those angry slants of your truth, words,

The hour when a sharp green seeds

Words lovers betray-

Sorry, no need for a loudly invoked stoicism

If a sharp green touches your limbs,

To better burn, or abrade them.