be being being
–gold sometimes
,Spring never
in winter always:
Summer and summer
go entering

every sunset
their frail whoop
and last gasp
as shoulders unneat;

as boys and girls in garlands
whose hands they fail to keep

and make their mouths as gardens
)with death they hope to beat
(

i want you. the
coalesced flower of
Autumn in
wriggling manifolds
of
freshest
death,

that by who
paints with strokes of crimson
their brush becomes
the coy feather
of once a month
between
your
thighs:


                                                           blood

Sea,



                                                     the




                                   gulls

                                           (you)


                                                                                          krashing


                                            by




                  frequent tiny



                                                                                         eclipses



                                                          of



                               waves


                                                     Express


                                                     chips
                                                     of
                                                     white
                                                     onblue


                                                     becoming


                                                  



                                                    (instantly)
                                                     hung
                                                     by

"What's it about?"
"It's a metaphor."

"For what?"


"*******."



"*******?"




"Yeah."





"What's that a metaphor for?"






"Life."

.






























"What have you been doing these days?"



"Trying to become myself."






























.

i love you

    (the body way)

it how
of parting does

(my own self from
   ) by its.

and when
it arrives
with my mouth
your lips the
whole fracas
of inept manness
cleaves into
stupid parcels
of needing to destroy

(withlove)

the  vambrace
of holding by loose cotton
chaste meadows of unreeling self–

where into will sojourn
the ***** promise of
each flensed second
of dying youth

(and make in there,

something living


(something vast ))

"who knows?" by body what
eglantine,
silver curving
upon heaps of
curving flesh:

upholds some girl hips
on two sturdy beams
of nicely wide
so easy to dash against
folding pink cruelty?

(i wonder) and how
you fit archingly
on your back
the gaudy sinew
of faultless youth–

(your ******* *** feels so good inside)

the rumpled fool
of boy stings
to fill with heat
every crumb of
slattern'd SPRING.