The So Gone
The room sounds like a stun
the window shone.
The petals are missing this felt dry sky.
Dun day. Mister warblilngs.
Crease bunch bricked to the ankles.
I write stormings. Visors for fenders.
The alkali in the moot tip pending.
Slant the tree among its polish.
Twine rum at ankle tub. Balloons
to the shed thud. The bark is parting
a mackerel and lodged much cheese.
A submarie trouser warning, of so's
to be got brought. A cherry filminess
the ridge will edge with the mattress molding.
Bulk. Day gone room for the end.
(from Own Face, 1978, 1993)
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