A conscious
liar, an inasmuch reserver of the
truth perhaps
you too are a hoarder. Perhaps no
higher than a worm
spinning your march of raw silk
shrouds. Let this
be good. If the clock is
inflicting more points than a cruse
of solar marigolds, let rain be
unveiling
your favorite inventory.
Into well’s moss-lit emporium
lower your private damages. Let
no one blame you. If you lift the sleep
your bones are in
to outlined guardians scorching
dark—
Look softly: Neptune’s methane
wreath lets no red loose. Finished seconds
sculpt the hour a shell
of what it was. Let wind come up
to rusk the cells
rake once-demolished crowns and
keels. Impalpable shepherd
you have won: less crowd
more pasture
