which silent drawl


To reembed the sense of the possible in
horror is to sing; to

dip your beak in the ink of the symbol is
to sing; to kill the

pronoun/ced active part/iciple past/iched
is to sing; and we do

      the run of the poem is
Life  its gut
becomes soothe as it coils   it
sings when the roughage has sin
as work   it will deepen & care

what vitriol, which crumbs of emaciated fill of hate can perjure?
    drawn, which
    silent drawl
    can spout this bowl’s venom and punch the foreign green?


To break the journey with sound, with
a tinned accompaniment

defining horses & violins, with the
grief of strangers in

fractal shocklayers denuded of the
whole, this is to mix

age with sound, the fin of the rain
with what is dying here

today, now & begging for yet another


The druid of unplan has
gaped and it

runs muckless circles
aghast; there

is a sullen momentum to
it though, as

if the garb of the fulcrum
of each circle

has memories of being a
point –