No Picnic

My heart hollows
in this fiscal gold,
taste of tea, saliva flosses
in supernatural asylum
of the year's decline,
puddles obsessed with heaven
settling its old scores,
leaves, stems, acorns,
dice thrown down
as velvet spiders trace my love
where he lies, napping
in ingot of eroding sun,
honeyed moon of the wine
bottle, mouth tipped by yellowjackets,
&, like a secret the body keeps
without possessing it,
the haunted tide of my old soul,
in all this covet, this episode
of farewell, rises.

Copyright © 2007 Lisa Russ Spaar All rights reserved
from Meridian
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission