Flaxen hair, un adieu, warrant for limb arrest,

chemistry haloed around tied wrists

praying for honey

and swimming through toothless tears;

we have milk for garden.

Letters like varicose, tattoo his story,

and gold, reproach, left behind

sometimes under children's limp arms,

who queue up some place ours

where we have milk for garden.

Butchered, empty Heimlich,

and shaved raven circled around our

graffiti tiling the room. Suit-abused,

you take our dreams.

But we have milk for garden.

Three miles high, you turned a blind soul

and ran masses of defence for we, a farm;

yard after yard of sunken sockets -

speeches harm. You just spent

And We Have Milk for Garden.