Fill They may, fill the fulcrum,
Fill the feather dream.
And my bane is my doom,
And my dream is the desert,
And the horses blaze beyond
El Dorado,
13 months revolve in the moment,
And the moment is calculated
In that thereof.
As bees circle flowers
Erupting the earth,
I fall into a new type
Of madness,
Drawn in spires and suns
And dark whirring clock towers.
Ghost ships in fog dream the doldrums,
They creak and yaw
Their dead sailors inside.
And the moon never shines
In the blackness of noon.
Corolla, Corolla,
What do you bring?
Candy dirt, black lillies
And bugs in the sun,
A relish, a treat for boweevles to sup.
A stir of leaves,
A wish of wind,
One house below,
One house above.
What dark matter,
What sensuous core,
Red dreams of roses
Spread on the floor.
Alone at last, my name the dust,
I construct this tower,
A tower of rust.
Here I burrow among
The twigs,
A being asleep in the fulcrum of dusk.