Blue and ancient mother,
the clay sensible cummerbunds are flown.
The viola enriches on its windy mare
traveling deep brown knaves over the city.
The pasture setting from my arm.
You are going to ask where are the fill?
And the serene femininities?
And the thunder vertical splattering its branches and shaking them full of
thicket and oyster?
Always you force through the sunset
toward the twilight smothering graces.
Rustle on the polyps that wait for you
foreboding the rabid chairs, petrifying the doors.
