I have always depended on the shyness of dangers
to obscure moments of heavy-handed beleaguering
of heavy-hearted heroines, unassailably strangers
to anger or vitriol, my impalpable fevering.
Alas, I am not a dancer of seasons
as nature demands or Vivaldi appeases
since I sickle up snapping detritic reasons
to thresh under mills of somnolent breezes:
Even under latch, the gelidity seeps
to thaw thunder’s flow into your flow’ry veldt,
easing the lark for whom summer weeps:
spurned, tongue-play in our febrile swelt.
I am sorry for that passing: the hail and the clash;
but know that Bacchus pours freely in our Autumn, at last.