The lineage of honeysuckle

scatters the lowlife weeds

with their quick little bows,

resonant brown leaves,

into toadies, footmen

for every turn of the wind.

The porch leans over

and through the honeysuckle

for its few astringent breaths

beyond the sweetness.

I’d love a rocker

of honeysuckles for my next

birthday, my eightieth,

settling in, the ground coming

to me with such perfume

I can’t help entering earth.

That sleep would be

the softest of all pleasures.

Honeysuckle rose climbing

bone to my lips.

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