Königseeache

photo by Andrew Shepherd

Buried in allergen-swell sockets -
parrying eye for eyes, the Right
affection appetent for Yukon in
a cup. Leaking over my bedspread,

Dawn finds a cleft and whispers
A gentle meniscus, floating Past
my ear, and in the sense We know
the majesty of snowdrops in June.

Outside, drills and hammers make awry
shuttle-flumes, splitting a mountain
into valleys where the echo is confused
for its Prime Mover. I roll from the box

Spring. My Child statant before me.
“Weep not for the change that borrows
Fear from the white-ridged hills we
can not see,” Yellow through The Brown

To Green-

Café Brazil is something to see, else
through matinal aperture: bracken
in a honeydew spray-fuse, swarm of
lightning bugs must collect to charge.

“Diet Coke all you’ll have today?”
He inquires, tarrying my thoughts to
synthetic syrup, caramel and carbon.
“Yes.” Curt, getting back to the fact

I woke up in a snow-globe, a Bavarian
village. An ephemerid, or at least elven,
loping along with a grin, with a where to be
non der Fund, and frankly fine with it.

-Andrew Shepherd