What Talk Of Babbled Truth Is This?

what talk of babbled truth is this?

this hair that once, once curled as ball.

i have tasted only once, this garlic pure as swansong,

on floating lips of ears to the shameful shell of gulls untwisting stem;

what length of Ark?. no less the beads to the strumming peak,

twelve mountains time rides jockey to the summit of the tongue,

the weeping violin of thorn to squander forty ways,

to camels standing woodpiles now the winters' church

sits patiently on silent sands of foot and mouth and fog

wearing fingers bright as campfire 'til the dusk of effigy

breathes tea to huskies pulling rain of voices to the teething sun;

what time of day hooks skyline to the belly of our pork?

now we eat as humble beings, our tables right of temples left

we rise above; beyond the cloak and dagger to the clotted cream of innocence,

to the knocking knees of doors as pale as carnivore,

the blurry eyes of speech no less a stranger to the sponge

sucking cherrys dipped in hamstrings wine,

pulling harboured lights, our trawlers manned and sun-dried,

our sea of legs run tides as deep as we are shallow

dancing eye-lash on vanilla-ice, our Wednesday Ash surrenders

to the charms of trout as drunk as we are cold;

our sails now raised, our rage now webbed.

it matters not, our Ark no more than distance from our shell;