Loosely Related Sheep

Jump, uncle, jump.
Your life has lost its loveliness.
The meadows look like mold-green fleece.
Of those flower marvels,
uncle, those alpine nibbles,
none remains. Jump.

Honey buzzards
bask in you, get your innards
on their beards. Maybe it's
intentional? In the mold-green clouds,
your blood startles, like a tulip
in a black peat bed.

But it's you, it's still you,
cirquing the heavens, nine times
over, eyeing the systems beneath—
icelets, uncle, icelets,
but really, it's all water now,
passed through your distant niece.

Copyright © 2005 Larissa Szporluk All rights reserved
from Bat City Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission