boom. boom. boom.
a handfull of scales in my quatermas room.
this summer-house with it\'s 4 o\'clock broom.
it is time to sweep the cobwebs
from the weather man\'s balloon.
the rise and fall of chicory and heat
now rises with congealed uncertainty
from mouth to foot
to the temper of a spoon
high-noon has found me squatting with the flies
drinking tea from the flame of genesis.
all clock\'s have ticked my fear of tinkerbell.
am humble in her presence
still I stand knee-deep in her blood-red sea.
she came possessed
through lunacy on a lucky-charm of stone.
she was older than a laugh.
as old as my anxiety.
stay true she said
stay now and prop my pillow.
it is only you who follows
who envies all concieved
from poet laureate to the sucking egg.
it is midnight in our mid-atlantic scene.
our cast of players gather for the feast.
it is easter now.
let the play begin;