we touched the sky

with suffered silos:

feigned gates on which my love might hang 

scabbed wreaths creaking in idle winds

peppered, long-feln

to keep the flies off 

to keep some facsimile of youth intact

another field-dressed carcass

only good for sausage

by the watershed.

ground is a funny word, isn't it? 

rough-hewn earths and

torn up turfs and

a finer...

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I woke from another nice nightmare,

the same one as last night:

calling in a midnight green garden,

sickening spilling envy over

the flower beds

and screaming through locked doors;

the keyhole beyond where

battleships flutter,

lopsided

in some old silent film.

Let me bring the colour to this

disease. Because 

I've brought it in fruitbowls,

and bouquets, and I...

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