There’s always Holy Week, and April Fool’s,
so always cowering, so always Peeps,
and forty lashes as the sugar seeps
by capillary action from the pools
in sleeping gardens to the hanging jewels
of cherry-leaf, magnolia; in the heaps
of fallen blossoms, too, the sugar keeps
its jagged structure as the weather cools.
That’s what I see ahead; that’s why I wait
to lift even this tiny buttercup
of wine, to lick this candyfloss-fleeced lamb.
Somebody told me that I wasn’t sweet
and I believed them, but with every sip
these bruises show me just how sweet I am.