Folksongs That Doubt Me

If today,

your finches are too close

to my vineyards

that is animalistic

to the things

we were ashamed of,

I would let

my absent-minded fingers

sift

through lace curtains

that flourish without

windows,

as if

we were homeless, young love,

to curb apples

and a weed garden,

but did we ever

deserve those

~ wildflowers.

♢

I should have smiled

for church bells

made of dandelion seeds

that travel

where you become

fingers

of a twelve o'clock prayer,

but I am not sure

if we were ever made used to

the mourning of poppies,

(those red ones

shifting from one of your

homely curves

to another)

like some misheard lyrics

of a canticle,

'and the stage rolls merrily by

without no strings,

nor needlework.'

♢

On a radio,

there is a nightingale

narrating a gentle

murder

prowling on the streets

and grieving

with mouthfuls

of bullets,

in an unperturbed

sing-song monotonic,

so, I try to keep

a sagacious elegy

prepared

for an uncommitted

homicide,

that is too calm

for bedtime stories,

but I am too tired

(to become an afterglow

of a seldom love)

to cough enough

tulips

in a single breath

for your ebbing gaze,

still, hands cling

to bricks and marble

clouds

as if

~ we will build a house there

that has your name,

build another

and call it Jerusalem. ~