Untitled

At that eternal morning,

Wild and wading with streams,

Fields nursed their bloom yawning

With livestock swaying craned necks to rhythms of silent beams.

What mystical pebbles of chatter

Under a pillow of grass we set on platters,

When sublime death’s blanket brewed

Too meager a sleep to remember what we slew.

Whistled in my dream dearly and beloved

Conspired with my hair for grace of mind;

Stolen foam from my spittle and cum,

Hollowed my bones and played with my spine.

Tools for my tomb were thus marinated in sweat,

And a cyclops forged with other vain and wanton journeys;

This collision of fright with serpentine brace that melt

Any heart to splints and runaway reveries.