that it's just another spring
memory, veiled
like the Crocus at the painter's
feet-
a clay bed
for seeds to green in lavender heat,
heats of old;
& things like that!
You, in yr leg-horned hat, will plant 'em
scented in milkpod
(or gashed to let in dew), and
keep in one drying eye
Dreamless, like petals in your hands,
are ghosts of a milky
love!
And shadowy, to be passed on
in hectic heat;
at that zenithal, uppermost stalk
of yr one dear eye, Fay!
For whose dear sake, (or since it's me!)
a type of acid-
yellow flower or the stone of a
southern star
will punch through Night's hollow bars
...
Fay, please, it's
just a time zone long, up or down--
acid Crocus of my love!
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