Generally, whatever's said outside

some shack, some interim man's

dwelling/s- like his words

(are) just uttered in vain, not

cacophony, but smooth

round phrases, splayed with

well-rounded intentions.


Whether it's sonic reach

falls behind his sneeze

or his anger clouds the trees,

his shack- a mess of foul timber

shakes and struggles to hold

these words, an outflow of

his welled-up memories ( seared

through his longings)

haunted by willows, painful mist

and crumbling dwelling/s