I am a poet whose mother has died, I think,
as I eat an apple, rose splendour,
watch the clover flowers,
hosting bees and insect parades,
and move downwind from the dogshit;
glossy and shimmering with flies
that were inside on my bench
I roll on my back as sun
bakes my eyelids to deep crimson
and green iridescence.
A framework of fingers
shapes the sky in a flawless
envelope of blue.
I shuck off my jeans and let sun
and wind finger my skin.
on the brink of divorce,
a poet attempting a novel,
seems like the fibre filament
trapped beneath my contact lens.
Always there, whether my eyes are open
but not enough to steal heaven
from the blue above me.