A brown fog of dust in an ecstasy, then
a ring, a thank-you and striding off to
know, for it’s off, off, off, off, off, off, off,
all undone so carefully underneath.
A steady air and blue-bleak horoscope
rebuffed myself, in whose gliding shadow
then a sled sillion shine and sliding that
disturbed its achievement of rolling.
A level stroke of water to my eyes
looked, stirred at Mylae: “that Brute rising to
meet a wimpling.” Come in a ring, thank-you;
meet here the rolling level underneath.
A silenced dauphin said “Oh from thee” and went
riding for the hurl. Say or guess it!