The rivers start in mountains
and travel under roads
until they come to holding places
between here and the sun.

The sun starts way before us,
before then I don't know,
but travels onward after us,
to places as of yet unknown.

The places seem to move to me,
but to me place is here.
Places really don't make sense,
and to that I drink a beer.

Think lowly of me, dear child.
I was here before the end.
Poltergeists do not exist,
only friends and then the end.

I supplicate the breast
to flatten beneath the earth,
warmth is to me made,
though I don't understand.

On one hand...

Begging for forgiveness
is the best thing I can do,
for a heart is not the newest thing:
I weep and so can you.

Still I wonder how I lost,
though grief is swept away,
another world is all the same,
the risk is here adhered.

On the other..

Deeply do I slumber
within your numbing grasp,
feel without the antennae
the casual and the crass.

Experience has taught me
one should tremble yet,
my enemy's destroyer
is warming me just yet.

Oh vanity
Oh sanity
Sisters that I can't please
Tugging at both my arms
As if I were cavalier

Oh paucity
Oh raunchiness
I fatten upon a feast
Though shame and morning and mourning and frost
Wake me up too early

I wander under hour
watchful of demise
listless as the sunrise
fouled upon a set.

I watch for your demise
and ponder why do mine?
Would I ever knew ye,
Mine would sunder yet.

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
    So true a fool is love that in your will,
    Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

My affection,
Playful-
In grace and trust,
I long for thee
for my cruel truncheon.

Whose swinging ruse,
a lighting crack,
Brings swift joy-
     which hope employs.

But what cruelty,
what miserly soul,
Whose weak mind knowest
the bestest of thee!