Wraith

prose of charron

sown and seed

is planned

for days that May

no Song of Solemn

–SOS

in vining verb ballet

just rows that grow

toward sun—below

tundra and decay

an idyll—no

demands play

within unbounded lines

defining best

not moral

less

the verdant and divine

but metric feet

of grapes so sweet

–sweeter still than wine.