you know, writin poems ain’t easy; people every now and then need to sit quiet,

just listen to the rush,

munch on a scorpion or hot ladybug

for that eternal push,

that soothing shove

back to the well.

anyway, squirrel her played music so loud lizard was moved to dance.

drum escaped any previous rhythm sensibilities,

engine too bopped to idle,

bass stretched cobwebs over higher ground.

man, it was nasty-

and yeah, lizard forgot about home that night.

(sometimes poems come so effortlessly,

the whirring of spokes down a hill.)

times past, tasting like espresso, he entered that photograph again,

always carrying a brisk carnation, daintily,

while the other priest was busy developing an egg

superimposed over some streetwise honeysuckle rose.

evidently, these two holy men did not wish to rub shoulders this time.

still, one of the martyrs was exceptional in that he could draw a relatively straight line,

difficult for others,

impossible for the rest of his flock.

so, when the other developer awoke from his middle-of-the-night nap,

he nailed the bedroom door shut,

and then invited the remaining phantoms to crawl away with him,

as it were,

into the next poem.

1968