and the elephant ears. . .
One could do worse than still to hear
the rhubarb saying, wild furred years –
the nights, the sun, growth and its gear.
The grass, and the elephant ears,
home six years to the south of here –
could do worse, and time interferes
with green veins and the hammer’s gear.
The grass, and the elephant ears
grow over my longing. A spear
in the elephant heart six years
will cause death. Do not interfere.
The grass, and the elephant ears
die like memory, re-appear
on our tongues, in our furred hearts’ fears.
Rhubarb, lend me your fruit one year.