Green stick fracture (edit)

We spread contented on our thrones
and clap the supple tumbles, like
shiny silver dollars spinning
cross the blade lush lawn. We sup sweet
wine and sour beer and goad each
other to try –

second hand cart
wheels, traces of lithe movement brush
closed daisies - as evening’s dew wets
our cheeks and barbeque seasoned
laughter is frothed puerile; flung to
the street in the hiss of cans and
plastic corks that

pop into bloom.
A veteran wheeler, unlike these
raw and tender buds, as my heels
jar upon the earth cooling, I
stretch my fingers, foreshadow the
old moon and launch

into side ways,
salad days. I am broken, a
dead duck, the ill fated daises
flattened. Curled foetal, a spoiled
virgin in an epoch of thick
bark and dark bones that snap, crackle and
pop.