Every morning my crazy quilt meets me
bright eyed, in from the edge.
I might as well have a pigeon’s view of Easter
processing down Peachtree.
Tell me what’s crazy about a blanket
so carefully pieced from robe and jumper,
summer blouse and kitchen curtains.
It’s my Ursula Clan spread eagle in slatted sun,
stitched together with more than thread.
Every day a junta pieces together its regime
arms and legs bound in testicles.
It bottles time – cramming clock into calendar.
Even in sleep it’s abuzz with jolts of blood
bullied by heart and lung; abuzz in kudzu dreams.
Tell them what’s crazy about conquest; tell them
even the tightest stitches loosen, even the best fabrics fray.
When water and sun exact their tithe,
everything red fades to green.
The force that drives that fuse drives the Fundy tide;
drives Thomas to down 18 shots of whiskey,
drives Caitlin to hedge her bets that he’d ever make her happy,
drives her albatross view of the corduroy sea between Wales & Milk Wood.
Tell her what’s crazy about a life fat with lust and duty,
tell her she's queen of the bard.
But talk fast - she’s halfway down the hill
purple robe whipping, back bowed to the wind,
fingers sowing sand with salt.