| Beneath the arc of the rounded rainbow ley |
| Whistled the lark as the arrow lost its way |
| The Blue lightless perfect-colored obfuscaire |
| Still supine, I crossed the sandy veil |
| Falling forever through each measure; |
| All moral minds sentinel |
| Falling to Hell |
| Breathe together |
| Farewell |
| The circle we drew as we moved but tried to look down was wiped away with the |
| sound of the morning rooster’s crow… |
| His tail was tied to a hammer and he dragged it to the horizon |
| In the hallway outside my bedroom door |
| I heard the old dead sleigh gliding to its restful drones, purposely knocking |
| the pictures off their nails |
| With a vacancy ogling my sober inhalation, our curator’s rocking to the rhythm |
| of the rain on her carved hair here in this room, with the inverted torches at |
| its barrier, where materia vibrated out |
| Its vibration left a plume climbing its way up a blue-blessed curl, |
| which was girdled by aurora of obliging black morel |
| Then, I called and cried out while I minded the bell that dangled crazily |
| closet edge of the basin of the rain which fell |
| (It fell in the shape of a bifurcated ammonite shell) |
| A beacon as blue as a bowerbird’s eye in the morn |
| A poem written in threes over four |
| My oeuvre based on the coy and forlorn |
| Another boy’s parallel night in the harrow |
| And the quiet decline of my questionable rhythm |
| Disinterested forever in upwards motion |
| I hung out by the white chalk letters |
| I watched my body move and let it |