Stolen rhododendrons in my hand—
the old imperfections of a heart at large.
I draw near my rope’s end shrunk to common size,
ignored in this tawdry harbor, hidden like a lizard
beaten by history’s hazardous lack of action.
Unlucky hero born in the province of the stuck record
where the most watchful tailors go jobless
and scissor cut their own patterns.
Blameless children stand looking
at a field of horses, necks bent,
tails streaming against the green
backdrop of sycamores.