From The Season To The Egg Plant

from the season to the egg plant on the drum

summer vaults it's shamrock on the second leaf of sorrow

great shifts on the planet heart too dumb to mandolin

swallow with my duck-seed

ruptures the surface of my braised wing;

dead enough to swing a wagons boot;

for the minute of the sage hand brights the plum cock

ticking with the courting of the counts that swerve the moon

earth of Cleopatra drives the skin of christened coal

peek-and-pry with turnip eye

each sun no less a stranger to the sand-stone of the crab

a stringed quartet for the capture of appease;

the dead ache

the red vein wing

the arch that now subsides with eagles' trunk;

the hollow stain

the fig with arrows bowed

the marrowed bone

the pine that creeps the needles of the claw;

a fanfare for the sword that crabbed the pinch

one quarter past the hour of the sun

a bad moon rise

thumping through the circuit of a crazed worms pouch

proud as death. a prelude to the cocked ear

with diamonds cut as demons on the applewood;

the pine that creeps the needles of the claw

the marrowed bone

the fig with arrows bowed

the hollow stain.

from the season to the egg plant on the drum

sums' the numbers laced with words on blightys' mound

bold as breath. cold as henchmans' tree

a circus tent for the lilac in her window box rapport

with diamonds cut as demons' on the applewood

proud as death

a prelude to the cocked ear: