You have the wary crackle Of radio in war time Uncertain of whom listens, and Whom exactly speaks In formal pronunciations Desperate and resigned As slowly burning ships What do you recommend For half-life —neither exactly Celebration, nor lament Mostly, perhaps At resolve’s inordinate delay A smirk, exasperated With brown sugar and cinnamon Baby’s breath, aspidistra, nectarines Gone overripe —soft As waning summer— For the intoxicating scent Arranged in a chimera Of cellophane as nauseating as breaking glass Well, we all have something to sell The static hard dismay Just perhaps not quite Drunk as wilted flowers Pretty but The stain indelible
