The begonias
underneath the mighty oak
grab Lianne's eight years old attention
while Sylvester the engineer
sees the solidity of
the more mundane
over the flash and impermanance
of the striking and fragile.
Annie just rests
under the tree's heavy, brooding
yet sheltering branches
secure she can enjoy
the bursts of floral tints and hues
in a soltitude that does not
threaten or impose
as rooms and corridors
are wont to do.
Samantha Grey pauses
on the edge of the cantilever
and waits......
The sun touches the hair
of Lucas' left arm
and its copper red hairs
flashes into her cortex
at breakneck speed
blinding the mature woman inside.
He is contemplating Schopenhauer
in a corrupted version of low German
from an edition the Nazi
refused to approve in 1938
on-line graduate courses
are an ambiguous solution
for him until the high holidays
are over.
He never sees Samantha
even though she is above him now
and closer to God
and beneficent closure
than he may ever be.
Audrey waits in the inbetween zone
and hardly moves a mote of dust
the fine soot
of strange factories
and smelt chimneys
best befit her and Lucas
these marsh thinning days.
II.
Under the ripples of relief
that barely teases the town
the soil remains electric
in the need to shift and stifle,
Martin Crosse perpetually
unstains his white dress shirt
and Sisyphus gets to sleep in
a dog works just as much
as the most focused banker
and begonia expert:
neither have had a sufficient bath
in these many clotted years.
Lucas grimes the text up even more
with the spittle from his onion-defined throat
while Sisyphus intemitently will chase
solid-sized pebbles Audrey tosses now
at Samantha and inadvertently
always misses.
Brisket and belvederes
and elbowed elation
is just the soupcon to keep
Lucas reading on.
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