beyond my nest of bees
the purple swells to coat my farmers arms.
no sword of lines will fish again
for a hag of fins below a narrow boat
where the dolphins spread their wings
deep beyond the backstreets of the cobbled bones of stout.
a darker mild from an in-to-out
fishing for flies with the honey of grout and cheese.
but I have lost my knees
and I cannot dance in my dungarees
of silicon chips where bygone days
wears a wristwatch for the comming of
the queen of dentures talking on my grave.
to the hills where the lonely daffodils recite
with no shape of circles paralleled
with the croak of a summers frog of Plath\'s delight;
is this the autumn of the frog?
no cog and wheel will steer me otherwise.
I have no spine
with one half of a heart the size
of a stuffed old billy whit
more hungry than the sun of spring and sleep.
still I cannot sleep
while the Sunday sheep
shave their legs with a frost I cannot see.
I am the red fruit of your syllables
a word or two
inside the vase of a words coherent spoon
your moon is both
both beautiful and as ugly as a snake.
your spotted trains that whistle
baking cakes of vanity and fair.
spare me a single penny
and I with all of paramount unease
will walk with my orange glockenspiel
the forty-nine steps of apple-peel
where the bells of ben
ring my many beads of porcupine.
if only they were mine
beyond my nest of bees
a ghost of summer\'s past
how sublime;