Lamblion by Mark Lamoureux

Sweats broken umbrellas. Is
a Brillo-wraith in the emerald mist
of nightvision. Is the herald
of the onyx angel of death, bleeds
continuously but does not expire.
Is a sapphire flame in the mud, sucks
bulbs into ground, spits skeins
of green out the seeds, the mess
of the road. Chases you down
into the thunderhead, off-white
incisors a bark's sail in the smoke-
quartz scale of the horizon. Is
a lemniscate of blue light on a lost
almanac. Asparagus-green of shoulder,
licks the early thunder. Lightning-lit
varicose trees tattoo the sparkling
wool, the curls of new rains. Down
in the root cellar, damps the bed
of the Green Man, holy ichor in tulip-
cups is attended by Will the Smith's
chromatic beads—moon-sundogs
in the diamond lens of its peepers,
lungs a bladder of fog, stomach numb
with shamrocks; the maypole
is its own shillelagh.
Trailed ivy a wet blanket for recidivist
nightcrawlers, nails its root into topsoil,
makes a ripple of kudzu, foamy moss
on mottled stones the oldest thing
on the path where the newly won are laid
down. Leaves Spring-heel
Jack stains on the caesared cobbles, leaps
at the hare's arc in the only slightly dark
sky, its stars wine-yellow eyes,
bouquet of skunk cabbage—feast of
fiddleheads like vegetable centipedes
in the scruff of lawns, last dream
of hibernation, prods the haunch of
the great black bear who shoos, rises
& yawns.