how can it seem
echoed streets are safely hidden
that caroling is for the living
the ice deer have melted all our hope
dear
in a child of God who cannot cope
here
for loom of dope the vapors of the fume
hath your ramped eyes
the colder still
as if the oxen tongue of love were wooing, and I had lost my humble guenevere
at last of all the market places lit
there isn’t but a Shelley/Keats to writ
where normally the matinee were
moving
I haven’t been a follower to lead
and if I ever see you drawing
windows
building them in boxes tall and square
there in taking naps to feel your healing
with my horizontal lines linear
as if to say she knows no answer
as if to say she thinks of me quite well
the fish with side of slaw goes well with Pinot Grigio
the girl is of a pearl inside her shell.