Fucking the Winter sky line
bluebells coarse in fields
winter rummaging in you pants
like velvet amongst snow drifts
the man is a fable and
crosses the scene like garbage cans,
littered petunias comforted
by choice
shoes, pebbles blokish perimeters
fields the sky ascends broken meters
climbing parched
Incessant motion moved by truth
awful and insistent floating
intent anguish and skies (foraging)
in asymmetric oddity.
With a Governmental splendour
the rash of incest.
and, Whence by this is truth
it automatically assumes its opposite
or juxtaposed by chance, dance
romance, lust or its opposition
if it escalates I'd presume
that I'd be amazed if they'd
put glass in it.
Foetus.
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