What's Left of Spring

Here in the centrifugal swelter of majestic daylight

you cannot clasp your hands around 

a slowpoke wilderness that intrudes on this high life

and glass clicks against your eyesight trying 

to captivate what's left of spring imposition.

Her meantime is a midline she can't cross. 

Let's call her Sandra Snow, the duchess of silver,

worn to rum by gelatinous combover of the boyfriend

beat to shreds listening to hopscotch breath

left of a timeline robotically engineered by 

a soul-less tundra policing the free radical 

chess pieces printed in 3D and now worn

from frictional overuse like the only mastiff

silenced by the dowry of time impersonating

disease and misuse of funds trembling with passion

obedient to the curve of a lathe on the threshold

of a metallic jewelry made for use.