In the copse where the green is noble and remote
and my wineskin sings whatever tune
my besotted soul applauds…
As I gather no moss, no stranger to rough canopies.
as there; i serve agendas beyond
my craven absolution
to arrive be-darkened and be-knighted
in the very crescent of my
incorrigible descent
erupting from a tomb of my own making
with a sprig of mistletoe
in a goblet of Sangria
star-struck by
moonshine...