Apricot Lament

Just when he thought to loom the backyard for bud & Just when he came to admire, or thought to dote over Already he rues stick-thin arms, whose petals brave the late Whose middles freeze; we’ve gone without All ramose till now, empty skirts anxious to round back for It’s the fourth year lips have gone without any such Already hips full of leaves and none Else, years by last, the lone — it splat behind My back, it came to ache as the rake clawed at We’ve gone into partial burn, without even No matter for bloom, the seasons no longer allow The trouble with doting over blossoms is In a swollen tub of ruth, wanting nothing but his