thru the barrows
and hell's own head
past winters where the tulips shed
smiling anthers, sickly sweet
thru tired eyes and tired feet

metted out loosestrife piles of letters
tossed each by each down forever
Wells as deep as Orion's weather
thirsting for all things unrequited
purpose lost but not respited.

how much meter for a stamp?
one what transcends death's garden woes?
spared of Hades' spades and hoes?
Dug wound-weary trenches deep
Fairy-filled, bodies, so many, so still
than one twisted up and wracked with sleep.

falling in a dream, you're near
trust us, who mark where you may land
blue as poppies be, 
there are no white crosses for you here.