suddenly turns, turns colour. The streetlight
splits through the rat's tail
Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning.
It is Arctic,
This little black
circle, with its tawn silk grasses--babies' hair.
there is a green in the air,
soft, delectable.
It cushions me lovingly.
I am flush and warm.
I think I may be enormous,
I am so stupidly happy,
My Welligntons
Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.
This is my poetry.
Two times a day
I pace it, sniffing
The barbarous holly with its viridian
Scallops, pure iron,
And the wall of old corpses.
I love them.
I love them like history.
The apples are golden,
Imagine it--
My seventy trees
Holding their gold-ruddy balls
In a thick grey death-soup
Their million
Gold leaves metal and breathless.
O love, O celibate.
Nobody but me
Walks the waist high wet.
The irreplaceable
Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.
