Say what we will, at times it seems the rarest
Moments, the most splenetic trills, the most
Ecstatic gestures, are conceived in sloth
And degradation and executed by a great unstaggered
Surge of feeling which bursts forth suddenly
Like a yard given over to daylilies, surprise lilies,
Naked ladies, to the spiked, thumbed, overlooked
Phallus of the yucca plant, to the lipsticked
Secret of the flowering dogwood’s uninfected petals
Falling around the sunbather lying on the grass
Like Susanna among the Elders, to the goat-horned
Furl of the climbing fern, to the certain posture
The mayapple chooses to display itself, to the heart
Raking itch of wood-lice in the oak, to the coming
Darkness, to the secret balance, to the extreme
And desolate flowering of the night-blooming cereus,
And to all those things, all that loosestrife,
Spiderwort, tickweed and flax, all those hidden
Gothic amplitudes which leave us finally,
Tattooed and senseless, trembling on the stair.
Inspiration
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