Tethered between branches:
The aesthetic of unsettlement,
The sweet mortality that tastes
Like a dead *** of leaves;
Shed on a cleavage of daylight,
Where the breaths chatter like autumn trees.
The gush that blows a fleeting murmur,
Its alibi in disguise.
The dust creeps upon a fall,
That screeches an eventual end of a boulevard;
Stuttering the leaves on a dawn,
Where they covet for to be hither or thither,
For twere,the mortality, in awe of them,
And for did I unleash them aught,
Under it crawled in my flesh
Sewed through as if an intravenous flow.
Death, my fellow(!)
for 'tis headed to thee,
As it cleft hither a flaw.

On a light it flickers,
On a death it singed,
For 'tis a shed,
Upon the day when it cleaves