I hear echoes that have no voice, Sad before the vaulted tongues Over brimmed, who spill on shunted ears The sour milk of pressed pictures And sooted lights of lime And the golden knobs taste Jarring-dry to their saw dust toes. Must the babe be chosen By its mother?
The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls And the chasm shout shall dig our graves, Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.
I hear echoes that have no choice, But to skim the moated land And wash well eyes with leaven walls That tease and **** the sum to crushing Columns lifted shoulder High by zeros of kneeling numbers Worming in bedded slumber. Must the maker of builders Be dismantled?
*The sea dirt is lined with woolen shawls And the chasm shout shall dig our graves, Throated hollow, to the abyss, we sink our six And ***** the dirt, call not them the spades.