The grouping of stars is aligned with
An alibi of truth coaxing the rubber
Sleet to a slippery pale above a shock
Horizon mixing your claw of sigh with
Mine. Feeling goes out of the brass
Window sullying cars and silk wishes.
Flick your meat-luck in the glossy
Dark of coattails and dart-holes as
The private bone is upright and done.
Catch the slim dance of lip, perhaps
Going further than solvent time will
Allow: that is its ballsy prerogative.
Tank goes hunting for good, and why
Not? The sun is not in the mood, and
The wood, the wooden wood lies dead
As the air splays white with dread
And the molten could, the animal
Should. Can and Care are opposite.