no salt on stem
no less a wound for pound or penny-pinched.
tree-lined as dined the magpie and the wren
on fallen leaves as grieves transparency;
through eyes that dared to climb beyond reproach
above all else; as bends the naked lie of seasons laughter,
love dumb as mist behind the curtain of despair
hides father from the cockroach in its\' shell;
how far away the silver from the birch?
the stinging itch tells nothing of such meaning.
in forest glazed with juice of avenging scorn
hindsight alone cannot itself be pawned;
from the incest of the body in the sky
body-mass to the fat lips of the cloud,
pine-needle torn for the morals in the gut
somewhere between the pillow and the sheet;
where climbs the salted odour of the loin?
the tree that whistles headstrong in a curse?
the powder and the finger; the point of stars;
love is love; a shadow on the lung;