Flies in the haze morning sputter and splay.
Water drops from leaves rolling with the blown
Blades. The windy whoo of the owls fade,
Blue buried eyes cradled in the hollow
Trees, the swamps seeker is quietly rustled,
Wings of panoply, spangle-speckle the wind,
Over the flames of autumn, talons thistle,
Crown the dominion of the fall, fade in
Sporting meadows colour, till the dive,
Balm of field, marsh, all ignites. Lever pale
Winds finger through the leaves gravely
And rake as you raid, shoulders that burning vale,
Casualties of insect, the lemming song sings
Mouse and vole flash, dark, sparkles the clearing.

Rain dapples in fens of the marshland brooks,
Among the rue hillocks of the sapling woods,

What little peace may fall to drop the shivering
Leaves, rood of the sun, a crop, kestrels quiver

In midair, to keep as they sway into the stations
Of all minions moused who faulter in formation

And bright is birth, when night clothes the day,
As all the mornings long, song of hope, in May.

Every culture of the world, they speak of,
Tell the tale of a great flood,
I feel the weather is changing, pouring hot
And getting ready to spill.
    I don't know what it was like before,
    'think now is like before the flood.

And so I welcome the rain from the sky,
It is only the tears of the earth,
As a young woman who cries,
Showing beauty along with the hurt,
In future days woes of our lives,
Will be cleansed by the tears of the earth.

I read the story of Noah and his ark,
'say that he was a righteous man,
I look for truth but I can't see clear it's dark,
And all the animals are scarce.
    I feel the end of an age is come,
    Inequity is the day, O Lord!

*And so I welcome the rain from the sky,
It is only the tears of the earth,
As a young woman who cries,
Showing beauty along with the hurt,
In future days woes of our lives,
Will be cleansed by the tears of the earth.

Sun slowly sinking above the river rushing,
Lime white lilies trumpet to the moon aloof,
Fatted fowl wading, an end to days hushed,
Lo, mercurial otter slips downstream— ****!

Little lambs gathered on the precipice,
Soft and snowy, peaceful and patching,
Their numbers change in spotting fog,
By the sea a great erne dives, snatching.

Tall, great blue heron,
Peering down insects, minnows,
Colossus of toads.

This bed is a comfort,
Much like the sounds of used water
flowing through ninety-year-old pipess,
Soothing me,
while the sounds of the city
are brooding inside of me,
and it’s the same.

It may be the pinnacle
of 1922, pre-collapse Providence,
but it’s the same.

It may be different,
but it’s just the same,
And that's just the way it is
So I cool this brain that's on the fritz
And do my best to keep sane.

The wallpaper is interactive
and there's an infinitude
of pigeons on a television screen
that is worth more than my apartment,
and it’s still the same.

The rug is soaked just the same,
the lingering odor of feet is the same,
and I can feel all the ghosts of guests
from the last century trying to,
dying to speak to me
and through me,
and it’s the same.

The way the sun rises makes me feel like
I have no cause to be awake or asleep,
but I’m awake,
and it’s the same.

The stress of lost cigarettes,
and the blame of untapped digresses into unnecessary depths
is the same.

The way I’m viewing the start
of this day that hasn't yet
is the same,

and it’s a shame.

You do you and I’ll do me;
but if you do me I’ll do you one better.
I’ll set you free or buy you a sweater
or some other **** I think you’d like.
Maybe I’ll just keep sitting here
on this oversized armchair next to Jer,
and continue wondering
what you are up to,
what you are thinking,
how many blinks you are blinking,
how often your neurons are linking.
I’m thinking,
and I’m thinking,
but still the numbers don't add up.
I'm sinking and shrinking and
I’m getting real fed up
with feeding the schlupp
inside my chest with pinings for you;
for the way you look in my favorite dress,
for the way you find beauty in every mess,
for the way you should be here and not there,
or I the reverse,
but you’re there and I’m here
and it feels like I’m cursed,
like I'm Jesus Christ left in the manger
to die of thirst and exposure.
Im a twenty-year-dead motor struggling to turn over,
or maybe just a dude with a storm in his head
that’s getting steadily older
and rapidly sober,
who's missing a shoulder to press against,
and lacking defense against
A soul that grows perpetually colder.