Pastoral Poem .
eye is in the beauty of the holder bee

the orange grove of a romantic life

housed and small
as we used to be

to touch soft trees and grass
and swing

the bees' knees, we kiss

unkissable scarlet slices of life
bleed on

the center fountain gone milky red

collect the apples off your head

I'll shoot an arrow thru your rosy heart

-----the sun rose up over the rose garden

a piece of your skin on a thorn

-------this is a stone house
-------we live in

the bee hives are how we earn

in your ear I've never called you ugly
to your face I've never told a lie

---eyes are for the rolling
---over orange groves
---for the rest of a life

---eyes are for eyeing
---each eye of
---the other I

soft talk in the back room

we were married in the hallway
by your perfume
tied a string around a finger

let the bees in on the honeymoon
syrupy and orange over
the blossoming
rose garden and orange trees

-------grass gone brown in summer
could use some water from the fountain

the grass should grow green in our mouths
with our children

your Christmas baby rosy hued
I'll call you Mary
for the rest of my days
and plant tomotoes in the backyard
and drink orange juice
rose tea
and honey the right side of the toast

this is more civilized than ever

there are voices in the radiator
and the fruit refuses to rot

-------my love
-------I have lost it!

-------my love
-------I will go

I have run over a porcupine
on the wrong side of the road

and broke the knot around my finger

I have an oranger fever
and three quills in my throat

in ecstasy I roll my eyes
over the rose dawn
and grass groaning for the mower
swinging and swayed beside the stone house

in leaving behind everything
a practice is made

the Jesus baby is pristine

the trees grow without feet
but with large mouths

I have seen your nose
despite your face

and thought the road too short

a marriage in an empty lot
a whole lot more
that its worth

a worthy harvest orange old moon
a grassy night
a barren womb

my shepherdess
for you I write my lost-full words

my losing mind

I plant seeds in your hand
and step back

I cut your hair in summer
for the birds nests

I place honey in jars and manufacture marmolade
and clean out all of the fountains and gutters

-------my children!
-------where are you

is that your voice the radiator makes?

I worry and I worry

your mother has run away
with orange rinds for teeth
and apples for eyes
swinging
from tree to tree

I've done cartwheels after her
as fast as I can

but that just makes my head spin
and the bees thirsty
to cover my face

and so
I must move with careful motion
and calm

slow and thoughtful
as each bend
of grass

I throw strings to the wind
and make mating calls

it's a big forest
and nothing comes of it

the rolling hills in the east to the glade

the stream that feeds the fountains
and the trees
the rows of roses by the lake

my love you have lost your mind
and gone

you have left my poem

full of bees and thorns

and my children
dead in jars

------I calculate the year's end
------the loss from the orchard
------with only two hands
------to manicure and pluck
------and comb the bees' wings

so past the grass and morning dew
the harvest goes undone
under continous daylight

and the voices carry on

carry on
.  ¶ 10:01 AM