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