Wonder at what may;
who knows the day,
eye-patched and gay?

A solar target through sail and wood
for good we warble at just me.
Sweet wine to keep the gums wet.

A northern beacon,
true to form,
dances, though this time not alone.


How to lay your head in public
when it is cold
and the damp is rising.

That thunder belongs
to all of us;
like poles, we lurk and hum.

Double-time there is only
music; duetted and distilled
but still the damp is rising.


Drier than a peak of
mist; pillars of salt;
Dandelion crisps.

The fifth reeled
at that minor fall
but we danced and danced and danced.

My lips were yours
with fluorescent, triptychs
that spun is out into the wilds.