sussurus

in gloam where green low spites lay down
to rest all holed in hovels still
it's not quite yours to pilot,
not accustomed to the right

still singing in the clipping mounds
the refuse cross the lot
you pat your pockets, absent, silent,
flames lap at your face

it hurts to hear the sun scrape by
through painted worlds of flower-pressings
awake at last and babbles fading
fast caught in the airgap

traffic hums the rhythm always
shifts before you catch your breath
so on and seasons turn i left
it in the snow to rest

your name, my tongue
my heart, your throat
locked out again it's not the point
anymore