better now the geese are gone.
no better way to spring this art of noise.
voices dressed in wood for the iron age,
common ground have we a sudden loss.
we came composed at arms-length from the sun.
no kiss. no stinging tail
no second-chance reprieve.
head-first we dropped our sun-dials
from the pillars of the birth-mark
to the solid ground of life\'s now mortal wounds
where each and every fibre cracks it\'s scorn.
each past-tense in a shell of pure retreat
we crawl as snakes once more a city\'s sleep.
I have claimed all ashes now are mine to keep
to walk with gay abandon
through an ageless metaphor
where the shrinking violet,
who sends her kisses to my spine
occupies my mind her majesty.
my kingdom is my own
this muted room!
better now the geese are gone.
within these walls
a leopard on the wrong side of a crib;