Trample Thistle Down
"Trample thistles down with sneers"
she says with laughs of falling beach glass
so I spin syllables of bless
while trotting on heels worn like hooves
"Every loss an open plain of salt grass chance"
she chuckles with eyes of morning meadow webs
so I twist the force of punch and turn to dance
smooth spins of resistance seem acceptance
Vive la France, vive la resístance! vive…
Oui Monsieur, möchten Sie einen Kaffee?
then another silent august death
hard to dance boxed under falling earth
More thistles for bare feet to dance upon...
I can almost hear her laugh at night.