In the transom level of our sight,
do the rosebushes below our stained glass
memory invoke the scents of lower loves
than the sweeping glaze of a sun-jeweled
oak made full in the afternoon,
or is it our distance from gardens
that clear our hearts of bitter beauty
and make us amnesiac with the furrows of
a dew-crusted soil where beginnings choose
to unfurl in lucent green sprig of clover,
where the light of space reaches even the
lowest sprout?

Fecundity could be our rule.
But the neighbors have no gardens
and our supervisors wear no petals in their suits.
For once, we could see a sportscoat sewn with
the edges of maple leaf tallow and patched
together by the sinew of tensile branch.
We drive monsters to work at morgues
and wonder why our mouths ossify the wings of our words.

In giddy perfume of fermented glass
we whirl with new velocities where
our experience may have poisoned
where our love may had been frozen
where our fluidity dried in frost dust
on the panes of our winter glass.