Oh see the thing! Glass mesosphere and ink:
The soil contumely in the field of green
From times when man among the sand could think
A second longer, in the stone tureen.
His hand to wrist to arm is a bone at a blink.
Though pink birds innocent, they hope to glean
With blinding Wednesday eyes, they love to drink.
He, Woden-******, gathers what they've seen.
We gray collected in a city's link
Descend and nest on pavements, there to preen,
And watch enchanted victims gaily sink
By the cardboard box, attracted to the sheen.
     A street magician can the world reverse
     With subtlety and somewhere to rehearse.

Should I suppose that angel with the bow
Before myself did no one any harm?
Perhaps he hunted none but Romans. No,
The seas his dart can pass with a flicking arm.
And who saw fit to give him magic arrows?
Mother Aphrodite's got a flair
For an affair and so ignores her sparrow
Son. He wanders, aimless, through the air.
Thus found he me as aimless on a bench
And, seeking rectify my lot, let loose
A bolt which speared a hapless, passing *****
Whom I in my right mind would never choose.
     As his was based on love injurious,
     Poor Eros' gift to us is furious.

There is a pleasant silence in my head
And dreary pressure joins my dreary thoughts.
The color from my waking dreams turns grey
Likewise my cloudy vision fills with spots.
You cannot know how much relief I feel
For you, alas, have skipped and are not here.
You left my home and my bronze heart
And everything through illness came quite clear.
The tree outside my window stands the snow
To carry straggling dabs of wintry life.
I see more birds in frost than I had before
When summer, summer smothered us with strife.
     You've left: my mouth is cracked a thousand miles.
     The earth around, I've wrapped with my queer smiles.

The figure lurks behind my lidded eyes:
His back is all a-hunch and he is mad
With thoughts of you. But often when he lies
He dreams as slender silver as you had.
Your beauty haunts the belfry of my head
And Shakespeare’s darkened lady’s takes a glare.
The sun was Rosaline and I was dead
The day I searched for you and found you there.

The river ran too quick against our days.
My love for you, which never found its wife,
Heard clear those words you said upon the chaise.
The words, "I could not do", which were your knife.
So here am I with no chance to rephrase;
You wounded me with words. I took your life.

It must be nearly four on this side of the road.
With a great touch of import,
Trundling through the semi-wet
And gazing at the flints refracted in sod.
A few meters across and there is succor,
There is warmth, where the earth is
Turned fresh. Very little keeps me thus
From that solid solid open door.

Still, I should be a fool to with a one
Hand cast resolve into the nighted water
Of the soul and with the other
Craft the very means for its
Exhumation. As I turn around I close
The door and shamble into dawn.

He falls like a velvet bird
And lands scarlet loudly
In the hole we dug for him.
The four of us struggle earth
Back to its sweet home
At dusk. No eulogy or parting word
But I would lay my envious form
Down to die in the damp, the musk.

They would as well. This much anyone
Could surmise. Their teeth are set
At edge, are bare and they can
Ring the salty scanning soil in wait.
All thought and breath lies underground.
Word has it four men turned to stone at dawn.

It isn’t always going to feel like this, is it?
The metal chair, with wind behind my hair.
I bend, I bend, I bend.

He was taller than a demon,
Sun radical and terminal beside the bed,
The burning outlines of the comic strip man.

Black eyes in velvet folds hold out for me
Because they know.
And I know too, somehow.

Lightly, oh how lightly, on the wood
I hear them prying out the nails. Their teeth
Cause me no end of worry, because

I can always hear. The swing moves through
My skin and it spins in my blood with the infinite
Touch of the sea

Anchored, I wait for the bolt, and I sit in the bend.
Attend, if you care, for the sound is my friend.