Flour Fell in a Circle Around Her

A Monument to the Loves of Shepherd and Shepherdess

i. Circles

I met her in a kitchen,
Her rolling pickled tongue
Spoke Spanish 'R's,
The air was so humid,
Her Spanish hair stuck to her cheek,
I grew weak, and knocked over the contents
Of a bowl on the counter;
Flour fell in a circle around her.

ii. Baby

Her gentle and affectionate mien,
reflects elegantly in plain raiment,
making any of my high-words treason,
against our future's darlingest claimant.

iii. Wait and Listen

If you wait and listen,
for the frisson,
to see what tomorrow brings,
-you'll miss your son's christening.

iv. Arguments Ensue

Volant words, and shattered nerves,
my fidus achates' volatile verbs,
trust tumbles over those supple curves,
and the third is left undeservedly disturbed,
--when there's little weight in our volant words.

v. Lost Friendship

I long had a friend
who gave poor advice
however, we've severed;
yet, there was one tidbit
I will always heed
It's what she said
about bussing feet:

'If you need a girl,
more than a morsel,
you'll kiss the soles of her feet,
and not their dorsals!'

vi. Prayer to a Slavonic Deity

Now, if I could, I'd only cover
her, whom I value, above the others,
and together, we'd do the work of Lel,
or perish entwined--when our god swells.

vii. Present Tense

Imagine the present tense
without her presence,
--Thence, imagine her delight,
when you paint her picket fence--white.

viii. Apologia (for Socrates?)

If I were the sort of scapegrace,
or the kind of varlet, who'd
kiss your wrist to make you crimson,
I'd call myself a harlot, and a charlatan,
then run my own scarlet blood--in payment,
flush upon the pavement.

ix. No Lamia

There's your principia:
"Let's see how shrewdly he'll let me act,
before he feels like a sore." Yet
you're still no lamia, in fact
even after you lewdly bite and scratch, and tell me
there's never been a bigger mismatch,
I know you're just trying to bleed,
how much of me you'll actually need,
when we're not what we are now.

x. The Way She'll Use Yeats

This violent engine,
These intense bursts,

This striated tissue
She's woven and nursed,

So, I do, take issue,
With the apologue,
And the way she'll use Yeats,
to drogue--My manic traits.