It's as if the sunset
was everything I had to say
beneath a spill--
a fancying forgoing form
to remain a fancy;
aphasia
in the clouds of ink
meeting tea-stains
in the spaces of corners
where the eyes always fall to rest
anyway
as they take it all in --
what there is between two people;
how a good day
is always offset by a storm,
or what will someday eschew its form
but is somehow still worthy of a word
that leaves you searching for more words
until the day is dark and bruised
with the meaning of them
running ren in streaks
over tracks and a ghost train,
and you are certain that there was a word
for that which moves without moving,
c
my bulbul had flown a wide ways
all Grace-full as The Magpie,
but my, isn't she an odd bird?
her do all up and front-ways
with those red cat-staches.
She is all about the tractable frisson,
moves the worm to get the earth.
The whole weald makes marvel
'look at this here scofflaw!'
a claque looking to lapidate something
but their bellweather ain't nothing but torchwood
and my bulbul, she's got brio!
best let her do her thing.