I Drift Further Among Away (Of Myself).

I drift further among away,
Resting my eyes on plated silver dawn,
Pangs of washed fatigue drench themselves to me
As the gull and plumage become the taken folding life;
There are those, some stammer visiting,
Silence as a branch—extending its limbs; those trifle woody plants,
But then I must turn again.
You fear the wind,
You fear the chance,
You fear plagues and of death;
Little auspicate, you’re winded, and drenched
By son of Ares and Aphrodite,
A little auspicate, therefore dreamt the worst;
You fear the worst,
You fear the flush of a calm,
Formidable silence, the pause of a cold wicked silence.
You fear the wind,
You fear the warmth,
And then you fear of talks,
And talks are lasting gardens
Rejoining those weeds and dishes of lady-bugs,
Clustered as the croons,
Those hums, you have thought;
I have pondered, watching the plumage,
Their fallen “leaves” to yellow grass;
I have turned. Again.
I fear fear.
I drift further among myself,
Away from the own clutches of wet grass that pelts boots,
And my once worn combat boots in dry weather,
As the pelt of grass succumbs
To the dishes of lady-bugs in a shallow rain.

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