if to weave some wheel the weight of stars
if to watch the strong desire the pain in
flowers
much itchy wool, worthy of the prose, arcs
screaming passion, so white of us, so
black of us, recoiling from that
your mind never yields over yams with
potatoes; I writhe like wheat on
a sunny winter’s day, some zone for souls,
some teary-eyed flower, upon a glass
aside a wife, cringing at your absence.
upon a wise wing, into sour salt, the
next in
terrors, horrors, unbeknownst of what’s
there, half asleep, can never claim if
it was reality, southern charm, or
northern illusion.
