Trumpeter


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.





No comments:

Post a Comment

Tearaway

We all float down here, unfeathered & fettered against this patch of blackened velvet.  Another year & we can all just pay t...