Links made of plate

Links made of plate shone
of surgery’s fear and of
memory and they,

slain across the days of steam,
were reversed and have slayed July.


Lovers should be lost

Lovers should be lost
in any event, for they
are half-deserted.

Thy silver wheels

Thou seest all thy lights,
and from those tremulous eyes
that kissed whispering
I knew not what other eyes I used to watch.
If I be he
that watched the lucid outline
forming round thee
returning on thy silver wheels
then old me,
not for ever in thine answer given,
and the goal of ordinance
where all should go,
was made by thy choice.

Under skies not seen by waking eyes

under skies not seen by waking eyes
children that nestle close nearby
in a ghastly wonderland they lie

as the days go by
dreaming as the days go
by, dreaming as the days
go by, dreaming as the
days go by, dreaming as
the days go by

The dapple-dawn-drawn falcon

The rein of it off from his grave in
ecstasy with a dead bird, then a bitter
look; a wing from his riding of the hurled
sigh, a dapple-dawn falcon and a wing

from a winding-sheet. My heart in hiding,
stirred for a wimpled wing. In a wimpling
tear,  hurl Reading level underneath him
in steady and gold-vermillion air, caught

as is, the dapple-dawn-drawn falcon sees
embers, and a rolling of pit embers,
level underneath facing down the dead.
Off this morning to heave a gliding gaol ecstasy!

Then off, with all men killing the rolling level,
the dead, dapple-dawn-drawn, and gashed, falcon.

A healthy and pleasant fire

It is a healthy and pleasant fire
our souls to regale
we’d sing and warm
I can tell where I am used well
such usage in heaven with their spears
and we’d pray
all the live-long day
nor ever once wish from the church that’s cold
but the ale-house is healthy and pleasant and happy as birds
and the parson might preach
and drink
and sing
and we’d pray
all the live-long day
nor ever once wish
from the church they would give him drink
and sing.

Had got basket all

Had got basket all,
safe in Baudelaire I’ll put
your blue soul alive.

A stinking song made of bees
tightly closes the thought door.