Is it vulgar, to gambol, on both sides
of a sacred marriage? Not one thing or the other.
There is a smell of spring and a smell of winter,
the sound of a party and a wedding altercation.
I’m unsure I’m invited to either.
Small inside my puff pastry story
I’m blowing on some ember – sometimes a flame,
sometimes cinders – dizzy oscillator.
Truth in both – true in neither.
A neuter case to curse the wedding night.
Unless, dance card spirited away, secreted
in some fold, I turn toward my song,
party of one, alone, seeking paradise.
A veil lifted, falls to outward celebration.
A. H / K. H-H (15th September 2018 & March 2019)