Our sharp bitter vitriol
smells a bit like
tinkle after
eating asparagus.
Our bromides
distill in
due time : until then,
there's cleaning
out the bed-
pan, gaggles of blackish
birds dancing
amid
scattered breadcrumbs (not
swans, probably
geese
dyed after having fattened
on the leavings
from
the gaping blue blooms
upon which perch
grackles).
A bad idea whose time
is figured by the
hourglass
hovering above head;
rooks swarm
the alembic
holding bitter tears,
while the sun's fun
percolates,
ignored but for the
pyrrhic reaching of the green
trees.
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