and the shapeless locks of trees still bend
with mood of mule, the kicking breath of timber,
bends lonely to the tragic want of the safe reach,
now the sparrow of our water-maid has milked our shadowed cries,
drank hebrew tea from the swollen eyes of octobers wind;
the blood of thieves, the haunting hounds of scattered rust,
rides slalom with the snow-plough in her yellow plague of cherry.
this merry monrh on merchants day for the sea sale,
bribes constantly with ambitions to the squire of our compass,
to the lady of the lake with her potting wheel;
o vase of love buried with the soft chain,
with walrus smile on the hard skin of the shoulder,
begs mercy unforgiving for the hand smile,
now the breast of molten lava hooks her rage into the veins
of the bottled frog without pedigree or purpose,
lactating with her friendly fire of ovaries for the man seed;
true olives for the pitted chance of the blue bone,
the promises of masons made with handshake on a dull day,
as old as the damp breeze billowing and begging for,
a plate of food for the dust that paints our landscape,
with oils as crude as devils skin on the migrant sails.
where now takes us this wooded walk of wednesday?
through the skulls of patron saints into the hollow seas\' of leisure?
into the bones of pleasured crafts into the great shell?
our bells ring tall as prayers for the broken glands of promise,
paying homage to the currency of a dead pound in her swim suit,
swimming cactus skies into the venus of the fly-trap squeezing autum.
this dry plain where the plantain peels our garlic straw of thunder,
needles arms as long as summer in her horse shoe;
still i wait with baited breath, kingfishers eyes;