Song, thaw me
Music, voluntarily gloom, I smoke
The turbid threads of lone
And let it stir the blood in me
Pills of ponder, the bottle
Of movement. Dance instilled
In my wooden neck. I am
Not astray in the moors
Of monotony. I am grass
Aged gold through days of speed
Blind sun stumbles, a ball
Shoved about in the faceless
Facets of the sky. The night
With its thousand vertices
Does not ***** me. What is this
This meagre crop, this
Dry highway of my skin. It gleams
Like a lake, and they mistake me
For a lover. Why do I tarry
So long before sleep?
Why does my heart
hurl itself about the room
I watch with a clutched chest
Fearing the fan would tear it down
And my mind with a thousand
Vertices makes constellations
Constellations too many
No room is left for the darkness
Noisy disquiet yawns in my bones
And they crack their necks
But God is dust on my shelves
And his angels are lit
In a paltry poignance
There is no lament or disection
Poetry is a slave to sorrow
And the sorrow is not mine.
This sorrow is borrowed, stollen
From a foothpath of grey
Ragged and tattered, used
Thrown. Stained with a love
That is not mine.

Song, thaw me on
The poem is so close
To completion... it is so close
To spreading its sensuous
Wings. It sounds
A perfect tint of green, the
Wind blows and almost,
Almost it