Banks

Shimmers spooled, a tumblefog March.
Koi cues in Jews' pockets, collars starched,
tulips a-bobbling:
which winner is mobbing
dawn-dozers hosed in dew, chlorophyll wobbling
to claim potent, pregnant
wealth lumping out of its bed,
run down by a too-oiled head,
eeling at middle age, not dead
yet, but its spawn will be fire-red ants?