Gerry Boyd

every spectrum contains a circle

i. it started near the garden of almost blooming

the pale blue shadow of a predictable leaf of graph

dripped behind the green sun of a fuschia terrace

on an afternoon filled with the geometric curve of insteps:

easy wide to eyeball this, from the sigh gasp calves

to the scarlet thrust of glamour toes in beige sandals.

this was the craving summer of grimy gnat filled screens

and curved lines that infuriated the crispness of Euclid.

and what was simply advertised as a failure of the will

became a rainbow of coincidence hidden in erupting leaves.

ii. after mid-summer the seasons start to change

the shadows of mimosa buds, having lost their scent,

form black comedic masks on the rain rusted siding.

we could smell the orange winds of autumn

hiding beneath the humid hems of summer

and the silver underside of weigelia leaves

that warned of scripted trysts unplanned.

a silver key balanced on the black mold,

unblenched, of the rocking chair armrest-

the chair painted in dramatic flowers

by the arm of a child expressing thanks:

this key could not open the painted doors

that lavishly barked the entrance to the garden-

it was a path we could not take.

iii. there are many ways to rectify the forgotten

in a dehydrated attempt to wetly articulate

the saved yellow globules of nostalgic desire,

the cancelled postage devoid of cellulose hinges:

deference is due to the wrappers of seed,

but only when the set of lavender ribbons

is proportional and, oddly, ironically demure.

there was the pitiless sun, not precisely prodigal,

that arced across peninsulas of the proverbial burning sand.

wait, she said, the waves are passing the bow

and the island is too distant.

iv. do not be disappointed by the refactoring of your bedclothes

in a windy foyer filled with antique chimes

and dead replications of the already dead,

do not sniff expectantly for a blowing wind

in this brown and barren alley of moldy must:

we cannot wipe away the chanting of the lost-

we can only hope to find someone who touches us

the way we touch ourselves.