Scarfing down a ceiling of clouds in great big portions.
He's feeling very full for it.

A breaching blue cavity
defiles the white and delightsome sky.
Heavens gate is beyond this
miserable indigo hiatus.

Fuller for it like the creek after rain,
and lain down like a dog after fodder.
Breathing out fog in relief.
Sticky phlegm is tacking within his ribs at the release.

With his posture slacking
the rows of marrow creak.
Dew accumulates down
the strip of bone and leaks.

The drops,
they doze off and plummet too,
in a lethargic trickling-dribble.

Its pathetic.

Just as one drop of rain cannot be blamed for the shower
among the guilty masses he'll cower.

And the men who desecrate nature
are running over with it still.
Being adjacent to it;
defile is abysmal.

he looks straight through the glass, past his reflection,

and at the eye sore in the front yard,
and at the county permit.

And with a wooden vice—
a wooden axe,
he’s got the trees own conception.

With 20 or so ironic,
humiliating blows

nature is beaten down by its own derivative twice.

Witnessing this is a daemon,
going to flog a dead dog out of boredom.

And he would do it,
he would.

It will do.