tools lying all around.
a blacksmith, a smirk
for what it’s worth,
his face forged withe earth.
Up is an anvil in the atmosphere
swift and sound.
and down is the blacksmith,
Who must now forge withe ground.
The sacred sign of birds with time on their weightless wings,
is simple song rendered
among acres alone,
of fields, of leaves, and of other such serene things.
to mull and to ponder
to look and to wander.
bird is the word
fowl are her ways.
frail sounds of the bay
heard just before day.
He knows how to whistle
and never to bark.
With nose in ‘is bristle and claws on her heart,
let ‘em sink in the thistle and drown in the dark.
Gather up your bricks
and build yourself anew.
Build yourself a new place to pace in.
Come keep me awake and away from the stupor.
Please lend me your ears
and tell me something interesting with your mouth.
You are a tutor in her boudoir.