90│ my heavens how good it is to see you

In the hall of sweet persimmons the rule of phantoms marched,
spun, and stood attention—
such squirming, squeamish, garrulous little boys—
a psychophalanx of babble and whims—
flanked on both sides by a mean and virile brand of willow—
and in the rear, a buzzard, a bat—
directed, clearly, toward the impressionable sort—
the spasmodic furies, us, the toasted bursts,
the innumerable moons of Jupiter for god’s sake—
whomever—to be certain—
you did not want to encounter their kind—
still there they were—all the same—saluting you—
pleading