V folk riffs

Speak not ill of the sun lest it
Eclipse the rot of moon and
Send you to the corner to rust.


Not ill of the moon lest it
Eclipse the hot of sun and
Rend you to a lisp of fate.

The tawny gulf of separation
Fades with time; only the snake
Will know when it is time to meet.

next up is the long whistle, the
whoosh of knife and castle and
day; next up is a village fool,

a pertinence that carries you far
and dies a compost death in fair
light and not so fair; next up is

thin, thick, filament of sprite
and a far reaching mistake, the
kind that gets it wrong twice.

The loud screech of the mauled paw
Creates a vacuous breach of numb,

Of dear river-streams conducting
Parrot chimes, chippings off a goad

-ed throat. Listless can be fruitful.

Listen to the tale that grieves
The pale moon as it recedes and

Sieves remnants of my sleep with
That of yours, only the bits that

Care to talk to each other; try
And bare your teeth to the moon.