Lunaria annua
I only make sense in December
with its layers, rainbound lock-ins
chapfallen noons and scrufflands.
Figures in the desaturated distant fields,
I can’t tell if they’re stationary or moving
towards me as the sun relents and founders.
The funeral parlour hearse hastes
by back at peak capacity, the spongy
ground still mellow and willing for burial.
My pockets are candied with raisins
and fruit drops, I’m the apex fall guy
straining against this heavy pram.
Hedges tote the honesty seedpods,
like sacrament wafers, plantain discs
nursery tambourine skins, bioluminescent.
Their purple pinnacle is months away.
The older man I’ll be, he hasn’t forgiven me yet,
take good care of him while he lives in you.
It comes around again before you know it,
the darksome clock. The truth is no more
than mincemeat. I want to snow, but I can’t.
