to wash away the brutal 
germanic rooted word thrusts i call

poetry, let us rest 

a bit in the cool shade of the buttress knobbed poplar
leaves lilting in the sentient stalking breeze, i will even

strike up a little latin, loosen up some cadence i will let the syllables
slack and canter and for christsake perhaps even gallivant; we will eat pink 

blueberries drunk on june sky and lemonade sun and the neighbors lawn mower going on and on into the cricket dusk window fan; buzz and semi-circle whirl, we might

as well oscillate among the kicked off covers and the reruns and the leftovers in the  fridge from the meal we ate in silence like monks but for the wind 

chimes make me miss the cigarette 
smoke of my elders, wrap us in 
cutlery sounds clinking on

plates we wash together,
by god, by honeysuckle,
by now and evering ever