how can I scoff this giving of unreal?
if it were mine I would dearly give it back
walk away with a turnip on my neck.
I am loose enough to swim.
a skin-graph on the groin
my mother bathed as sweeheart
in the year it took no time to walk at all.
as tall as babycham
she whistled as I dared myself
to speak of her past tense
under lock and key?
it made no sense to hide;
she pushed her science past the great white tongue.
it was the eagle in her eyes
a gothic smile of yesterday today
haunts my eyes by fireside
burning like a log;
it was her gift of wood that made me loathe her more.
bound by love on the fluid of a glow
with our heads caved in,
I had no heart
you had a fiddle for a nose
and never cared four colours of my snow.
look me now dear mother.
I have fathered horse and varnished both their toes!
they are my miracle of touch in our loveless swamp.
they are yours o dearest mother
to darn one sock and walk to the forest inn.
it is noon-tide and the mouths are open wide.
we have fish to feed
and the birds are all too thin;