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