nor
sullen to wonder whether ink-sick,
or
torched wilderness nor chain-links –
as
murmurs rise those eyes bled bricks,
of
glassy fires near wires at brinks.
nor
love-wand at breath at kef at knees,
much
more adored as flying grayness –
assumed
as lover for mere inept breeze,
for
rain befell lust sure gust in feyness.
nor
pitted as dying looking for myself,
or
captive an armchair loving but you –
or
eating wildweeds groveling for help,
as
but a liar for pain was good as dew.
tomorrow
is death by guillotine strike,
unless
abandon hits heart by spark of life.
