For Lorca
       

It is impossible to imagine an evening not steeping in
the liquor of moldering peonies. The grass
of my heart is somewhere else. Yet afresh
in these totems—swan-necks,
casting shade-shreds of rubbish tumescent
on the sills—Everywhere a tremor's
underfoot—measured, mechanical,
as if who once dwelt here never lefr, not completely,
but instead buried light—that still extends into feet
in its orbit unfinished because
it glimmers—

Terror's frivolous if known
but minds its progeny, extending upward
and out, pooling into denim
pockets with a lavishness
like the meticulous bridles and careful seams
that once bristled in pilgrims' Sunday best.
Strangers are the sternest dependent
surmises—fletched
under the arms by flaxen headlights.
A thread's width
away, I think myself wheat-colored. Queer. The plants
no longer seem to moan. As you creak

upon revival, consider the doors that delay—
even yours—offers in unavoidable
sincerity. Forgetting precedence, hold on to
something else, something

invariable. Provenance is a blood system. A painting
of cool-armed figures hangs red-seamed
above my bed. Their faces
whitewashed in strokes like frozen thistle.

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Copyright © 2019 Justin Wymer All rights reserved
from Deed
Elixir Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission