Mark Zelman

I could say how sweet summer peach honey streams    
to your heart, or that jewel weed bobs like oak
leaves on new spring pools, and one Mayfly's day holds
   one eternity.
           
How can you see bleeding ripe peaches, murky ponds, decay?
I could say that May grows rooted
in decay, and lays drained green corpses sleeping
   at the feet of June.  
       
We could say the truth is murk and mould are wed
to green and gold, and without these lovers a
poet hears no chorus and reads no living
   lyric in cold ground.