See that man, standing in the garden?
How long will he linger,
hands in his pockets,
lips pursed, as if to sing?
The lark beats him to it
as he gazes, horizons
beyond his meager grasp.
While he pauses, bones
and thoughts calcify
though purple irises beat their heads
against his wastrel thighs.
Pluck the roses while in bloom:
morning is the time.
