the moon-baked meadows
of our
extravagant loss
are fraught with tatters
and ambulant moss; they *****
where the grooves loose the krakens that bark
at buffoons -
and old dust bins that teeter in the
undulant dark -
Of
cul-de-sacs and withered hearts; departed from
some hell, too -
tame
for wicker men with eggs
and rain
that barter when to keep
is
plain,

and
give what
ought be
kept

at bay

as any errant
wave
that may
escape.

may well be kept
a placid
ray

in a pool of night
for days... and days
and days.