What I Saw

Fences dripping with wisteria,
fruit trees in thaw
and covered with pasty blossoms;

as if a room
had quickly been vacated
and filled with sinks,
all faucets loose and dripping,
the odor rank;

a stink like chloroform or ether,
but not enough
to put me fully out
so I wake up: to an egg-yolk-colored sun,
fried up and greasy.

Now what? I ask myself.

If death, run like hell to meet it,
take a long steel rod and beat it.
It has lived too long.

What is wrong may appear as your doing.
Or you may be wrong.