by Ray Succre

Come up to the bough and enfern
this molting body of moss and boy.

Shirk your dayside thought and depict
that you have received this thought:

Liking a poorly pressed greenblade
is a fondness of the pane between us,
that a love of the usual times is comment
on this silty pond that germs the ground.

The fibers in the moss and boy are cross,
also in the bough, and in thought, furious,
and though caught, though unpotent
by an age, are all the charities passed hand
to hand.

Come up, you, fair vapors and stems,
come up if you can hear from the blood.

****************