Feb 15 2018

A stubborn impulse, reflex in the spine,
admits no conscious conscience or a choice
between your flow’ring dogwood and my pine.
…From crocus, saffron; reticence, a voice.
Great Mouth of Truth, your tongue beyond my ken,
I offer you my hand, should fiction bite:
“I hurt you once; I’d hurt you once again…!”
From sight, take fright, and scurry out of flight.
Two people get my jokes, on planet Earth,
and neither will explain the punch to me.
It tastes of cherries, death, and Jesus’ birth,
but can’t decide the man he wants to be.
Is he a nut? Is he a Russian spy?
Is this a swindle, or a true good buy?

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