A Strange Love Poem
       

Roses are forgetting raining days for Naples, I'm afraid.
Styrofoam is always that September you had,
a twist on the beach in this impressive light
to somebody's packaged death-site wound.
I had died and poured black worse, driving through
a choice in a land to be corrected, near miles of ocean.
I want tonight, the footprints of winter cooler, to grab a conch,
coat and hat, than onto something surrounding us
all the time. All events, by love, a block and a half ahead,
years ago, are free. Life, your shoes, the snows,
a half-eaten garden, swims in the color, slides above granola bars
mostly. In your heart of love do the stars shower in this
and power the accordion. The pomegranates fill their dust city.
The potato trees in Amish country were dreary,
and my eyes kept having soup.

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Copyright © 2020 Rustin Larson All rights reserved
from The Philosopher Savant Crosses The River
New Chicago Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission