Thursday, August 9, 2012

The Probability

I went alight learning in bed,
my love was a heather, a flat

There is some motor
which is anger

The day was lathered on staking
into a listy mayness.  All the hair
was shuffled with spit; and one
comes to a face he had not fought to,

Eye-stink, eye-low tensions
like sours
in a mood.

Leech-mooned is perfect,
in clothes, itself when a tiny
ampersand-able blossom
fakes the rain.

Rain is a flower that won
like this; wan
like that, one
like this, Juan.

To know my door is one of these
that the wind can catch at,
be not too much shaken,
which I have not written—

rooks abed to whomever,
fills nothing lost but himself
despite the laundry, the tact of us,
but an insipid rest, less
since of no wear enough to see

trouble spilt to merely
intention quick adapted
to moans in the wall.

For all we knew underground
I have myself, and love them.
Or if I will not rape
also the headache of.

And pathetic equally
would look at you,
where it all was
come and come again.

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