~JOEL LONG~
COLD JUNE
This cold summer day
preserves the
blooms
of catalpas like a florist
box,
a room, a glass door
cool air inside and calla
lilies.
Clouds of blossoms,
like white grape clumps
are suspended
still in dim air.
Their stillness breeds
complacence,
nothing to do
but wait, wait for a
blossom to
fall, a breeze to blow
and jostle this collection
of white
mouths and fringe,
these open throats mapped
in sprays
of blood on white
and lemon smudge,
tunnels of cold
perfume.
At least in heat, the
blossoms seek
their withering,
grow limp in sunlight,
drop from
their base,
drifting to the lawn like
failed
parachutes.
These flowers are stiff
with cool
wax, unnaturally stable,
hope of the hopeless, balm
of the
deceived. They hang there
now, in the cold, hinting
at the
afterlife with beauty,
treacherous as nettles,
numbing,
anesthesia sweet.
© by Joel Long
