And between dead and live how I came to live

Not with roses nor asters, no garden for my hair
not with rhododendrons, no I won’t be going there
to shed my skin.

Not to the soul within
the laces of confetti.
No,
I won’t be going there.

Not to Brussels , nor Roma, not to dear Paree,
not to London England’s pubs, no, they won’t be seeing me
bursting apart.

Each vein – path to my heart
where blood vessels leech.
No,
I won’t be going there.

Not in summer, not in winter, not in autumn’s blazing leaves,
not in the May of June bugs will I let my lungs freeze
over into icicles.

Barren sickles
revamped in a season’s mock.
No,
I won’t be going there.

Not in black bedecked nor in white, nor in the meadow green,
not in the hazel yellow, no, from the rainbow’s pot I’m a weened
infant, live

in rock ‘n roll jive,
dispersed in a vibrant host,
making the most
of jogging toes.
No sister,
I won’t be going there.
No way I’m going there!
No,
not there.

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