The Fieldstone Review

A Smiling Phiz for Hindlegs

After the birth of rose in May,
grimly glad fleckering harp-souled Anna
scaled the horse and tore desire
from a flesh of chestnut's pith;
swung the knotted heart of kith
& dashed her flail at brother Big's,
He still bellowing in the furnace
of that dead-end lovely dog day,
burnished in the memory
like a gloating shirt of skin:
"Let me take your Head off, sis!"
(thereabouts the gist of Him)
"I am tired of all sings,
want to slip off into God"
as needle to a magnet drawn
in rose & gold of twilit din.
Great tree-climber, high magician,
tall above all moss & harping,
jack-knife-whittling, hale halloing,
never was a man so smiling;
hailstorm voice from sky descending:
"Mercy me, was ever man so pelted!"
who beat the dragooned thistles there with sticks.