by grimbeau



Wind whips rain into a lather, suds flop

coating the gunny sacks of chrysalides.

In lamb we trust, mint sauce spooned, vinaigrette,

in dollop, drizzle, cavalier splashes,

and in gravy swilled figure of eights.


Suds slip down in dirt, super, saturated

soil where rose and weed fear to bed in wont

of oblivion, just when you least expect

a  dandy bramble jallops the windowpanes.

No rest for the wicked, it tattoos.