Wisteria

Say it with me: wisteria.  

I look through tiny windows needing 

wash by way of vinegar and news-

paper friction white pink lilac purple blue.

Wisteria plushes the yard. 

There is not enough of everything

in my heart. In my heart a fragrance.

As only beautiful purple blue 

forgives. Can I give you the perfume

of Anne Shirley in all the eight books

I still hear you recite in vocal color

an implicit impresario 

of tendering beyond imaginary

boundaries we jointly require to 

evaporate transcend just then fresh from 

witnessing first-hand wisteria.