the dance of the seven sunsets
of course it’s not blood ~ period
not all blood
you know how it is
you clean the house for the next guest
and your hands bleed raw on the pumice rag
on the coming down of the stairs after the slow climb
of not finding the jewel at the end of the pearl necklace
tipping the cups and reading the coffee grounds
one more scratched day on a life’s sentence
for soon all the cherries will have been picked
the tree will be bare and the floor dry and rustling
so many trees bleeding the red sap
so many swaying to the same wind
the axeman avoids the wet trees
to build a house a home needs seasoned wood
not too wet or dry at his defoliate touch
shiver me timbers jim lad and a bottle of rum
she is a sea of seasons and no mistake
fed by the recalcitrant tributaries of the red river
two ferries crossing that same river passing in mid stream
meet you at the island at the end of the cove is the cry
up shit creek without a paddle he thinks
but then he remembers
jam and scones and cream in the secret garden
the tide turns on its ebb and builds again to the flow
it’s spotting again
oh please don’t rain on my parade
again
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