&tamarind (2018)

  

Not from harvest-heat do I my olive pluck;

And yet methinks I have lobotomy,

         But not to squeal of good malodorous luck,

 Of pimples, principles, or Treason's quality ; 

        Nor can I fortune to brief minutes yell,

Pointing to each hot thunder, press, &tamarind,

         Or quell parties that go well,

Most oft predict nonsense, easy to find: 

         But yer eyes all  knowledge scribes,

Art negligent stars, in them taste tart

         As tousled-beauty writhes, shall together thrive,

If going to storm thou could'st revert ;

Or else lightning prognosticates

Thy front's lie and booty: doom, all dates 

 

2018