the parlous cost of lists. It were all a joke
from top to tip, belittle it for mercy. Stamp.
Wicker. All its legs.
The bottle fury.
& all that begging his superior
For all that
tippling and the onduline grim
carry-on magnificence with all those shining leaves
hood mistaken for plastic in the gloom, those weeks
serving clouds and the inspire glittering.
The traction is no tableaux.
Forgiveable, and soaking.
And she wanted to look beneath whatever the carry-on clued
snapped at hearthstones, stippled the paving with the print
of two brute heels. Never mind that the field started at her feet
in inch-thick plate that raised above her head to star the weald's
dark clouds with glass in glass. And it was impossible to walk.
Between ploughlines, two soft backs and lowered heads.
the pair whose little legs tucked and grains adhered to down.
Believing a skyline then particular was a way of moving
believing the blink after chat of whitened stones. Believing
chaff drawn down the line of the road accidental, and the
sileage mown. Believing fondly. Lone, and whispering
her parliamentary hides. Speak body. Welt combe. New
Halt. You can whisper birds for as many times as you like
but they are mute et svelte, et primaries wet as palms
alulas wet as thumbs, lovers of beets and ground.
How many those walked alfalfa. Toadflax and hairy bees
weak foci for the dispossessed. If I could plant plovers
in the sky. Or shake a westerly with landrails down.
And all its invented ghosts. And for all its clouds.
They run along the lines as tiny soldiers
all wintry & humane.