Apricot Lament

Just when he thought to loom the backyard for bud &

Just when he came to admire, or thought to dote over

Already he rues stick-thin arms, whose petals brave the late

Whose middles freeze; we’ve gone without

All ramose till now, empty skirts anxious to round back for

It’s the fourth year lips have gone without any such

Already hips full of leaves and none

Else, years by last, the lone — it splat behind

My back, it came to ache as the rake clawed at

We’ve gone into partial burn, without even

No matter for bloom, the seasons no longer allow

The trouble with doting over blossoms is

In a swollen tub of ruth, wanting nothing but his