An Ode to a Man Less Loved

'tis intemperate, the april rain and those dafodils
along the wiry cracks and paved walk by the river;
the shoots of spring sunshine barbing along the still of this
flood's bloated fat bursting the seams of wandering sliver

i sing to him whose visions soar the sour slip of infinity
from his perch on that new bridge, inspecting river's rage
for signs of shimmering love and roots of ripped out trees
that might float below the surface with magnitude ungauged

O hallowed fool, step back and dream the sun for me
find the poems that cascade your veins so quietly in vain
instead of this banal existence of a city man awash in bleak
be the bitter angel that speaks the note of flowing sane

Love, man, Love. That is what this swollen cock that fucks
us up each spring with torrents of expected hopeless water
lacks slicing down from the greened white mountains, as he sucks
the calm and soothing from sweet mother nature's naked daughter