The Halo Factory

Under the granite clouds, through
the quinine rain and wind
-tree-downed warblers' songs,
a man lopes the chicory
cliff yelling, "Grace,
GRACE." He is running after
Grace. The brain's spunk.
If I were Sunday, I'd ask
you whom you love enough
to elegize: St. Patrick? Depac?
A country? Your sister?
Hive to sound. Even here
—plashed with waves' poultices,
the cop's words: "I never
saw anyone who wanted to die so badly."
The bulldozed heart writes
its quarries, queries, & quagmires
on the horizon's tarnished waves'
explosive white-dress-flounce blurs
and ships' watermarked steel canvasses.
In the garden, the Immortality
Iris waves, wearing its white-June
-prom-tulle. Small green
maple seeds stencil peace signs
on the wet cement. The silver
maple's gold spinners halo air.

Copyright © 2007 Susan Firer All rights reserved
from Milwaukee Does Strange Things to People
The Backwaters Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission