little enough world how up Up UP
in your frail face is a pair of slick
rinds coloured in the drowsy dream
of being,

a forest that perhaps
is filled with sunset being sheathed
in rain

its voice that
tinly crawls
on tremendous legs of pale wind

a fine club
is wield by
enormous strength of drunk hands

drunk with vine and pistil
(poppy and thistle)

that ***** ***** *****
the alabaster hull of cloud

(a single star emits
and dances upon fall
all the deadness who
turn their cheecks up

         –even their cheecks up–

at this death more,
bright

more




vital