by Ann Townsend

    Despair needles you with its whisper，

    it is agnostic， it believes in irony，

    like a fly‘s buzz it is perceptions， a busy

    blood clot that says alive， alive.

    I‘m not the stopped motion， the straight line out.

    Your garlands are "convivial， festival， sacrificial，

    nuptual， honorary， funebrial."

    That spring， when we strolled in the rain，

    you bent to the stone wall‘s alyssum—

    bloom， stem， and root， you tore a handful free.

    Against your mouth the petals

    were a mass of stars winking out.