The dapple-dawn-drawn falcon

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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 brown fog of dust

 

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!