windows open onto pepper plant,
yours is a chamber of
great character, a room of
Psychic pain is mendable
in doses of your peacock poems,
(colorful, feathery flashes of
insight, emotional fans of depth).
There is too much poison-candy
in this world, we seek remedy
under philosophical kiss
amidst shelves holding dried daisies.
When a child,
my family placed Christmas stencils
on the windows at Polkville Hill, as
our clapboard house became etched
by snow-ice, inside a parade
of silver boxes, a French horn,
and mistletoe, fancy territory
for one so young...
As I look into your eyes now
we are carried back there
archers calling at Cupid,
in an elusive, ginger scented