another cut this love
this real of ache
that shakes the silence dry
that breaks each day
one hundred pieces small
through early mornings doors
to know-it-all.
no taller than the panoramic
view of clotted-cream
it will as life abort the final cut.
the final scene
this grand parade to walk unseen
through hours tinted-glass
of man\'s machine.
the heavy noise of shoes;
the bitter egg;
where He once walked
now kicks and squawks
fat enough for Easter\'s garden walk
to pimp the flesh that follows
swallows whole the gift of Edens chalk.
another cut this love
a winters plough
the kiss of death
the milk of mothers cow;
my chariot of snakes
who loves me now?