and forever, it makes sense

hands like violets that are loose
and clean, and bleed with each
pump of kerosene, that make more
noise than you or me, that rise and
fall with pride unseen, the termite
lair beneath rough skin, has found
a peace I’d scream to win, a dulcet
tone, a blade of grass, I know this is
too much to ask, through sheen you
laugh and gallop gay and still I ask
for the end of this fine day.


Right please
through birds and bees
fire-sticks that
disappear through trees.

Left now,
let’s bow, let’s bow,
in furtive life
that’s a route to plough.

Straight ahead,
the leaves are dead
and the whitened tips
are off their head.

Back again
where we pretend
to consume all things
to mask the pain.