Weeping Valentine

On the last hot days
of brutal September
when wars break out often
on earth and in heaven
I can’t keep the bird-bath
full enough the way
the sky fairly bristles
and burps with birds
and the half-baked
pomegranates weep
dreaming of Cezanne
or Ramon Navarro in
The Pagan is it
or these blue irises
sweet but soon
perished when we
who would be
with them pray
to be taken down from
our high crosses
and woken up again
after the gas chamber
and the bombs
and the strange growling
from the house next door
to live on past winter
into another sun.