Encounter the shape, in its taking away from the paper peoria…
Litany lost, the brown papal fox
The length, the shear, the center.
No, on and on again, he’d said,
“Make it an elephant.”
Take me to task in the source-coded bath
To the last sordid drop, and
Drain me out again…
I yelled to live, to sell again
Too old to make it past thee boat
You’re great to late trans-lantic moat-
I bid another caustic thought, cross-stitching
Loads of fools and oranges
Better-off dead, he’d said to me, and
Don’t you make it in a thought to leave
I’d shredded down the lots for me, and
Placed the frail urn underneath the paces twelve to seventeen.
Then make another lock for me-
Till dazes pay, they’ll tie my grieves.
Three feet deeply from kitchen sinking
Slowly lacing, locket tracing
Lots of sinews, toes and leaves, and
Make me sleep beneath the birch tree.
Hums 