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The old lisp

I hear, as if

on a grey day.


If all I have is through,

the pool moves.


Un-tuck me


at the scribble

of feathered wrist;


and dribble

at God’s window-pane.


Gust is the scrawl

I see as wonder;


crippled at the hillside.



I sit; a nut,

turn in my shell,

eyes in backward.


Dig a wee self;

forage in the glen

of fine, crude cells.


I’m pressed.

Ears in the ocean


a mutinous song.


Feb 23 2017

Nervum Tibulum

Diabolical twitch

in the darkness;

singer in the light.


I’ve come to


winking at the fly,

its odd caress

and back of a turbulent sea;


and whistling

over wings

of a wet gnat.


At day

I load my beanbag

with the cat


and another three yak


of what they

kiss and kill

at their backs.


At night

I shake the moon

as I fit fit fit


and FALL,

like death over lark.




In a Church

In the sigh of frescoes

immortal eyes unhinge.


It’s you, me and the old

moving air that flees

in tasted gust to the walls

and keels in a pirouette.


Intervals are rent for the choir

when all dust is met with the roof

as they sing and they sing


or when the old tenor waddles in

combing the stair with a whistle

and cough – fends grub with love

that keeps the stone alive for years.


Simple – he comes.


And here, now, I sway

on wings I’m too small to know.

Unbent, in the blue-smocked violence,


I feather my hands.


Dec, 2016

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