This
will be a
low colt prayer/
a player's prayer of
sayings dark anointed,

sliding in
to new existence-

trailing disappointment,
from the one that went before

At this
appointed juncture

I am more
or less
the same..

my un-angelic
angles grind
in uninspired
office

from this
I seek a mealy sway,
a speck of strength to recollect

exhilarating dialects
my lovers deigned to speak..

So I gave Bob Dylan
a Greylag Goose

( for his wildfowl collection)

I phoned him and asked
what the bird was up to
and he started to reply,

" The Anser, my friend..."

- get the folk outta here, Bob!

Today is a duck
sort of day,

grey and windy
with waves
on lakes..

good for choppy,
                            bobbing,
not so great for
                             dabbling

but ducks find ways...

see,
to our
stuck look,
they're doing
duck-type stuff,

just as
the text book said

or

while they paddle
are they pondering
their station in the universe

expanding on the mysteries
of bread.

A gunshot
splits the air

resounding
whip-like across
the back of morning,

milling rooks
erupt in flight
exploding out
the tall, thin, tree

assurance
has been tangled with,

a rabbit scarpers
for the warren ,
breaking, frantic
to evade
those hands
that shatter peace.

Those nameless
hands that claim the day
that rob the complex
of its store,

Those heartless
eyes that aim out life
that blackened eye
that flames the roar

What vow
knows iron twinned
with flesh,

what conscience
has this beast.

adept
in deprivation are

The hands
that shatter peace

I
have
grasped
how cold
it's grown

now I
cannot feel
your hands..

As I recall
we watched together,

turning off
the upstairs light

we huddled by our
landing window.

bundled
under burgundy

We stared across
the road, toward

that solitary
street lamp

both silenced,
by the wonder
of it all...



So when
the first flakes fall

I become that child,
once more,

my face behind
the curtain

forehead pressed
to freezing glass,

being careful
with the breathing..

living only
for the quiet snow



some part of me
expecting you
to be here

And I shall
flinch the brittle creature
from the rock face

proclamate,
proselytize,
with frightening
euphoria

to your glorious embrace,
I must comply,

perching
vulturine, delirious
impervious to pain

near that place
between excitement
and all possible regret

I will go by