Scarecrow, Black Tulip, Thyme,

I have loved you as time searched for its wristwatch
and several hours rushed over the hill or was it years
while the loss cost us all.
I meant to say the lost
(or was it lust) cut us all, in any case.
I am tired, Misters, of all this losing. I woke with song
behind my teeth but to sing it is to strain it.
Sometimes it's bearable, or Wednesday, you choose;
every universe is not universal, the stars are barstools,
and most nights sit up, elbows angled, leathery, yellow-eyed
spinning and falling off, here and there glimpses of the pets
of extinct giants, the sidewalk: a dachsund's spine,
love has gone that way, simply prehistoric, the sea
turns to tomato soup, biblical.
Understand, I have been blued, untrued,
bibled and reviled, it grows old, I grow
petunias, oregano, daisies.
One day I woke up
to the vastness, the handful of days
dashing over the hillside
like the children of nursery rhymes.
I remain unculled, uncolored
and (for all the poems,) unsung.