On the consenting, injured tip
Of a madly colored though feeble crayon,
We began a game of chance
And the final days are upon us.
The cell doors are sprung,
the backs of the public buses all turned to beds
Each buzzing with the activity of honeysuckles and orchids and prickly pear
Beside streets paved with rancid butter and bean husks
Smaller than those that nourished us during winters and springs in not long past;
Our gardens plowed and gutted, roots and vines displayed as trophies for inspection
by arts councils, tallied by crooked pens.
And though the number of eggs hatched
Naturally corresponds with the number of those fertilized,
I keep my heart-sleeves fully extended despite the promises of absentee neighbors and
my eyes on the sweeping hand of father time.
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