mowing

Can't it all be like the fly by night,
lit up in the airplanes tail is the red.
Were it not for suicide and crass words,
and things overturned and overturned.
Light learns from its surrounding,
light dances in solitude and excludes,
the Merriweather, the hay, the garden,
in the grey.











Let the words weight deploy me,
chance, encountering my bed,
sat me bolt up like a thunderclap,
and that was all I ever read.