wiped

     by the handkerchiefs of ghostly conformists
     eyeballs die
     desolation
     as a landfall
     near its populous trace
     rolled quickly
     when pushed against
     an inquisitive interface
     in every thoroughfare
     a print thread of the civilisation
     thoughts of the civilian
     returning string

a substitute for Spring

     what you
     dare say is
     what is
     I dare say
     a material of several remastered prosodies
     a dance routine as a substitute for Spring
     distracting you from your plan of lacing the tea
     as a delicate countermovement
     that looks like
     not posing like the rest of us
     reading your face on the back of your spoon
     less for your expression than your classical technique

     I
am watching twigs unfurling
across soggy ground
     I
have many clocks
but not many of them work
     should I even if I cannot
     fly
     in spite of living
     the instructions somewhere
     lost in piles of stuff
     before I started
     I couldn’t remember
     if worms benefit from an education
     or is that just the mice they feed on

Nicety in my Larder

Then came a cream dessert,
     the lurking of an old fib in my tablespoon.

A butterscotch-like demeanor
     filled me, 
     from the delicious nozzle of an emphasis,                     
     that it dollops not persuasion to be read.

Evincing no syrup,
     I resolved to follow the strawberry whithersoever he should go.

in summer

do not wait to be given a piece of paper
pick up the brown crayon
and write no

if you let the winter in
the

this pencil is too short
and now you must run even faster