I

No roses have I
(The scent's a passing fancy after all)
No bird, no solitary warble
Whose call fulfills my love of that
Which cannot be loved

But I can see floor-boards, forbidden
With patterns perhaps unwritten

This floor of wood bypasses the dirt
Who bore it (we cover the earth, my trees)
Does my father, of course, have to do with this
Hard ground?

I lean down to touch, smell what I can of the forest from gum and shit, my sole.


II

Sometime a rose for a lover
I might purchase
How else can I entice her to dance?
How else? (the very thing is enough for her,
but that is more than I can stand)
She dances, naught to do with love, but joy.
I am a plaything - smiling eyes
Delight her soul


III

Women there are and have especially been
Whose lives fasten to mine, blessing the track
But not the wheels. I pull them off
And sign in
To gaze at vestiges of our love - the camera
Has always been a shithead

Spite for him could be exactly the cause for these looks
Of discord I gather from photography
I ruin

Always I'll forget the tenderness,
You fantastic tags! Will I refuse
My less flippant moments


IV

The web is in our bodies
Should I dance and stamp upon these boards
It would, clearly I think, help to do nothing
Regarding the lack of roses
And to pull each one up would reveal no dead bird
Unless some dog
Found it clever and good
To hide his inanimate plaything