ALL THIS MAY DAY

All this May day we have lollygagged
from Chagall's clouds to Modigliani frimousses
the Minneapolis skyline dragging away
behind, handholding lovers in cupolas
hanging after the rain

All this gray way we have squired possession
catapulted through our akimbo expressions
a spire of glance squinted through "ceci n'est pas
une pipe," Cézanne's flowers convex
in impassive slate

Each square we have parted, etching kisses
as thorns through startled wood.
Eyes pricked: spurned kites stabbing homeward,
returning signs of heroic muses
grown flippant in frames of song and use.

Afternoon: Each shard of fire the city shrouds
is a ringed hand over pupils, restful.
Extinguished, I pull my dagger out of you,
watch your colors flow instead:
strained from one state without water,

Mercury penning suicide on arco iris
memory; metonymy and harmony
growing fat with photographic certainty

that we will waken through plate glass
haloed, marked for sacrifice
on fateful satyred fields.