Spits and sparkles

While the sprinkler spits and sparkles silver in the sun like

a little girl in tantrum, as She watches over
with maternal condescension, as if it's
not all Her fault, I read new poetry
in place of resolutions
my mother's mind
from that time
trying
to tease
a translation
for today to take away
for tomorrow when sense
might be made of the past brought forward


through Time's tenacious teacher
threading necklaces of knowing: "... is love
the tough, tensile wire desire insists along all the blood's
jumbled frequencies?" In apt answer, the sprinkler spits and sparkles on.

For Emma Neale