Amidst a Rather Tendentious Dream in Which

Predictably I watch the quiescent asphalt

Of a domesticated parking lot where farmers

Tip-up their weary tumbrils in ranks and files

Like caissons resting before or after 
Some battle that never occurs

Dear flowers of spring I see how you all

Languish in the cracks of the pavement

How you wilt in the fissures O watch out!

Too late the wheels crush your backs

You bleed how you bleed cute little puddles

You smile so brightly giving in to cartwheels

And farmers’ boots what?  Is it because
You are silent that you have pushed

Your brassy serenity to the centurion’s end?