in the park where squirrels peep and gibber
and the grass is brown, where the green died brownley...
there's a mark
on the world -
where we never fetched turtles
or lay languid in the shade,
but a place removed
and a day
wasted.

i see your charms as a heap of bleed.

and i forgive you all I give for ...

but i mark this place.

i brand it and sear my name
in the flesh
of our fresh regret, and stammer
in the sunshine
of our irredeemable
suns

the suns
that moons mock
and orbits abandon
to get on with the business
of sleeping through
a dream.

and you approve.

and i remain
unsleeped.

like a withered fruit
unpeached.