One could find the rare, rare amend,
May it be the return of the archaic,
But even I drag it out upon the turf.
The reeds and their humid song (stray dreams)
Upon the strides and twists,
Prance the endoskeleton of the walnut tree,
(Its leaves ambushing dry land)
Just as the birds vacate from the power-lines.
One could find the forthright ghost,
Late at night, the night clocks out.
I lie in bed, dimmed to the ceiling.
The reeds and stones,
And the ghost thought of a past friend,
Prance the endoskeleton of the walnut tree,
(Its leaves ambushing dry land)
Just as the birds vacate from the power-lines.
All could be said, as that hand chalked,
Should I beckon a glance,
Faintly at your own word,
Breathe the sorrow and skim
Of self and life?
I stride and cross,
(The twist, the twist).
Thoughts bygone—
My past friend,
Your former lovers, friends and acquaintances;
Estranged, the maiden so fair,
Hyacinths to those, to all herself.
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Pseudopsychosis. 