In all the (grand) universe, there is nothing
more important than a (fresh) lemon —
to suggest otherwise is (sadly) inhuman

the sour bite of it’s flesh on a (human) tongue
the bitter seeds that split in a mouth (accidentally)
the artificial desire for cleanliness (implied)

Karen’s grandmother, being sweet — (often) used
these perfect citrus hymns to a (kindly) distant God
to celebrate (sweet) love with her

sugar, lemons, water and so (damned) much time
seconds, minutes – forever stirred (well)
then her soul – also stirred (better)

the recipe is not in the (cold) water or the sugar
but her grandmother’s (beautiful) smile
and the lemons. Most importantly the (fresh) lemons.

years later, her grandmother is gone, the (thick) scent
of citrus hangs in the air for (ever) just a moment
she sighs. what could be more important than that?

Lemming stars would never run,
only spring fully formed from the head of God
into the silent eternal race from nothing to nothing.

They will giggle, obviously,
and unobviously, they will fall
like particularly obtuse rain from an unexpected thunderstorm

Lemming stars would never leap,
only summer on the cape sipping seabreezes
saying to lemming moons, “pull up your damned suit!”

They will cry, obviously,
and unobviously, they will winter
like particularly old women in pinkly flowered muumuus near Naples, Florida.

Lemming stars would never run,
only smear half-thoughts into the mind of God
like wild hymns on the edge of some holier-than-thou Galaxy far far away.

They will laugh, obviously,
and unobviously, they will whisper
“Yes, there is hope … there is always hope.”