Miss Rosa.

An old maiden after fourteen years of snow.
Black woolen socks intense with mourning.
Gingham falling stiffly at set square shoulders
built like bricks in a wall; firm but weathered.
Mouse tail hair, tight and torpid.
Little fish in the big blue sea--
sputter sink, benumbed and rising.
Air bubbles popping soundly soundly:
"What's that, love? What did you say?"

The light streaming like a party, a celebration;
yellow and fading lacelike particles.
Through the shifts of blinds as barely opened eyes,
dancing. Each his own pontoon,
sailing drifting swimming through the thick
stagnancy of quiet
Thudering loud as drums with corpulent resonanting bellies.
Ripples of vibrating air motes as they jump,
shoving like dirtyfingered children.
One into two into three seven four.

And still still falling in love with imagination.
A sticky attraction like something sweet or wet
with flies always buzzing and landing and never making up their minds.
Sit, little Rosa, among the flies who still can't listen.
Holding the world as she does between small baby teeth
like corn bleached white and dripping butter or honey
or something just as rich and gold.