April, April

Bradley Trumpfheller

Fled the churchfire    some of a habitual yellow, our 
                                 inland daisies 
the weight of language and the weight of
language when 
                         we speak its grammar
who could confess us living, garden-spire, your bright
sweater on the tower fan
and our throats a year of garlands 
sweetheart, look 
over the leaves   the satellites  
casting their endearments of shade