Ms. Jackson
Tis not that mine heart can just be sawed!
Camping with stars strapped to trunks for naught,
look what the black rainbow of thinking has brought
earthy thee, winds your nosey nearness flawed.
I can’t heft the flight path of nighties shed
oer apple-bough pluffed sheet dreams wrought
in fields, our streets, or if one call can be fraught
with any more pleasure. Perhaps high people read
you best who in the times of vinyl did say
thou were clover honey power unto the old:
No blossom turns cheek but to sturdy day
subtly right as sweet olive essences unfold
in aged cage-match love taken to sunshine lie,
to be the whole beach beneath you and swelly die.
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