fig, date, and tamarind

 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




portland Oregon
2018