Aubade

so I'm retreating to a shack
in the woods to grow

bonsai mangroves
in margarine lids

the way they sit
fettered in a fingery sun

light in the morning
honed by dew licked pane

I am retreating so
to find you again

in saliva lines of spiders
feigning buttress in the corners

and the slow drop knell
where faucets fail

effect on cause of iron
sink the rust rings

rings and rings and
rings out in the hall

This poem appears in


Pass it Along

© Brendan Bonsack
April 2017