if nothing ever happens elsewhere or
to an elsewhere - then perhaps a somehow
and a here, and to a now -
but by then it would have been all
the more apparent that it had to be -
not some anyhow or besides anywho -
other than: some variation of a me:
probably tilting -
   or patient with either a lunar smile
or a lunar scythe -
some odd project for the night
    commencing - commencing with
a pocket full of stars and the index finger
broken - or at least dangling like
a rubric of raindrops perched by hanging
on a washing line like
that obvious similarity in image to:
birds on a telephone line...
it's still persistently winter, or rather:
winter's persistence as in:
winter is not desperate to hide in
the wishes of man or those terrible
pagn riddled songs of exasperated
     O with a choir of sighs...
          (at least) in winter all that is alive
is probably not wriggling -
or buzzing: all that is necessarily alive
and aesthetically pleasing continues -
while any bothersome itch of a floral
perfume: or all that (i might have
sympathy) breathing in and sneezing out
airborne floral ******* puffs
(no, not sugar dust)... well... that's also
somehow "handy"...
- because winter isn't but it should be
celebrated more -
as i just can't imagine the thick splodge
of supposed brain working some
miracles of thought and by extension
language during the hot muck of sweat
and luvvy-dubby incesance for:
                          perhaps neu-und-erneut...
that it will remain...
an early sunset - a sun so vibrantly less
yet at the same time more,
that one may be inclined to contest
a stare with it - and not be blinded or
at least revelling in splotches and blotches
of bloodied insignia -
come 4pm overlooking a distant
London skyline harvest of pitchforks
and glaciers -
                a splinter right at the center
of it like a cat's pupil -
        a whole lot of oranges, plums,
mangoes, apples and other
fruits c/ vegetables strutting -
   was a pear never the colour to
mimic peacock - well... perhaps
in the least via -ing...
           that much is certain...
                come winter and that ideal
sunset...
   for if summer has a sunrise
in its pocket... winter has...
          so much so, winter...
           however distant this tongue
is from its uraltwurzel(n)...
                     a many refreshing returns...
to the same old pinch of cold...
this sterilized air this freshness this
              zest!
kommen winter:
                   wann ich bin leben...
that too: the hours of daylight
   become all the more, more precious...
almost precariously "earned";
most certainly above all else...
              not needlessly of anything:
esp. within the connotation
of harvest... for what else is there
to be harvested?
the earth is finally breathing
through its open pores of mud...
such air... a teasing of suffocation...
or in the least...
   i imagine: a crown made of amber.