We cut now
to lakeside,
folks. Girl
in white
holds white
daisies and the sun
spills diamonds
on the lake.
The wind
is patient,
waiting. We wait
with the wind. If
only this would end
with waiting.
The sun
is too bright:
white glare
like dying.
The girl plays
with daisies
alone.
The scene
screams OMEN
for all its homage
to the dead
era of silent
screens. But this
is the Age of Screams.
The monster comes
lumbering in
black tatters. The sun
is a sadistic spotlight
and the girl is not
of age. She gives
the monster a daisy.
Wind fondles
the petals, kisses
the brick face
of the monster
with fragrance
and the monster
smiles.
The girl takes
her tall friend's
green hand
and they kneel
at the lakeside.
She plucks daisies
and the friend
gazes at her
small white hands,
smiling
when she smiles,
laughing
when she laughs.
Folks, do not laugh
or crack a smile
when the girl in white
tosses daisies
into the lake
and the monster
imitates and the daisies
bob and spin
in zoom
on the lake of crushed
diamonds and the monster
runs out of flowers
to toss but grasps
a human logic: white
is white is white
and white floats
with ease - sunlit,
soft white.
The monster seizes
the girl who screams
as the stirred thing
heaves her
into the lake. She
refuses to glide,
spin like a daisy
in the soft white fire
called sun. Water
breaks. The white
dress blooms
as the girls goes
under. The monster cries
out. Wind pulls a cloud-
shroud over the lake
in cool ripples.
The monster screams.
Enemies close in.
The monster flees
this bucolic scene
not in terror
of being caught
but in sad error,
duped by the literal
new human world
that sinks poetry,
where white does not
make a girl a daisy
or daisy make her
float but monster
can settle blame
and scream
is everything
that remains
under the quiet
sun.
