an atlas on a string of steel erect
flees garden cruise for aftermath of perfect symmetry.
from a hand of snakes to a melting mood unseen.
a charm of coiled blunt-linen red
awash with all but heaven in a glass.
no perfect idol this to the hanging foot
dancing two-abreast
while the poppies glide as high each hanging man;
stuck inside the mouth of swollen pain
each word awash with the buggered row of rocks
more upright now I bend as brothers do,
beyond all things more granular than him.
unmasked by love all living things
reflecting sun more passionate than flame
no vision yet has lived my longest day.
more pessimist than optimist
in opera spheres bohemian unwrapped
staccato raw in hives of sleeping gods
all giving things that rise from Durdle Door
each night above the arch my cold recluse.
you have found me place of peace in a squatters jaw
to quarrel open-hearted with a throbbing telegram
sent to one more beautiful than stone.
sleeping mute in quarantine divine
to dream my art a sculptured suicide;