Black Locust

robina, marrow of hunted earth
regather your pardons from the soil
your draff roots encumber the witnesses
a gentle bow stirs the sound of traffic

coreopsis vines scalp the dew from heaven
and center the falling leaves with the sun

bring me your black ice, your cold reasoning
I am retiring bivouac sites

I imitate a better persuasion,
with a meridian of hope endow
the congested summit with patio roses
conflate my desires with God’s mercy
and pass resplendent recommendations
with a spadix respiring her caress

raceme exchange prattle in applauding
wind, a vacuum to oppressive debris

clamour about his feet in the mountain
burrow clod and vacant bivouac
fires, that sing neither of perfume
or gentle bows to the sound of traffic