NOT AGAIN WOULD I TURN BACK
Not again would I turn back to angular roads,
where adjective-heavy boughs throw back
shadows, black, on soul-white gravel;
nor find reprimand on the eyes of butterfly wings,
and praise, in a glimpse of scampering rabbits;
not again pilfer the dark pine for ecstasy
nor the running stream for my image;
nor blow skepticism in the parachutes of dandalion seeds,
and court redemption in a speckled bird egg.
Not again would I turn to find
the whole world poisoned in a rotten apple.