the world is alive
and i think
who knows?

is death,
maybe and
perhaps but
always nothingly

arrives somethingly
between the pressed hips of Rose Buds:
a little song.

              (and why not?)

because aren’t pretty girls after all,

their own voice which
breaks over ilia

the only alive
which a pond is .

(and let me tell you i have been inside the neatness and warmth of pond and spring where the fronds extend between cloves of sunlight there was many pretty girls between the thigh and hip bone up to the knee in bracken smelling of some cheap summmer wine)