You glow like blue stones
in a porcelain teacup,
an old one, pure white,
touched lightly with the powder
of milky garden roses.
You and I must be
circumspect: the gods become
jealous of such clear
reverence; pollen is dry.
Here is a cup--will you drink?
Stretch your neck up tall and don't pronate.
The term for 'rolling your foot inward'
Comes into her mind passing the bedded peonies,
Where a man runs next to a squirrel as if on a leash.
The step down helps her bad leg.
Her jokes are never right either. You have to believe,
For instance, that there could be a piano tuner named Oppornockity
Who only tunes once. As it is a crowd
Of crows is drifting in circles, green October
Is barely yellow yet, but her hip says rain.
- Gwyn McVay
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