follows you to a wet wall
to pebble dash your hopes
that you’d at least seen some
green in the fair silos. Shivered
when you felt intentions
were not good, arched
to let him pass by quietly.
By the sand heap, bloodshot.
And you, going lightly into night,
unbold, near-visible in the concrete
cupula. He harps his rural
dis-idyl, the id’s own claw-hand.
This one was spotted in the black plots,
a living thing on goose down,
fingers in beard. This one was
surely what crinkles in the fist,
was surely the finer thing on from pastoral,
was pictured with a royal
on a ferry for the hook of Holland.
Sleet, you gospel of a witch,
by the elm, the arch, the us.
His bread became the sea.
The sea was a lake we stored fish in.
Under the sun, we undered the sun,
we shouldered the sun and became un,
the us in football chants,
the us in all muscular forays,
the rock bottom. Still chiming,
still the chiming.