--- L E O N A R D   G O N T A R E K

A crow sits on the cross of a telephone pole.


Dragonflies fighting over air,


Even here on the floor of hell, a


Punky crumbling mess rich with


Fragrant disappearing flowers I do 


Not know the names of.


I think of our disputes over sex.


Scentless sting of kiss afterward.


Irritating traffic, cicadas.


Shirring backroads leading past a porch


Of inbred moonshiners one


Marvelously tipsy zen monk,


Prisoner of cypress trees and his shyness.