The last perhaps a word an idea a flotilla
Of butterflies no kidding I mean the
last but
Why don’t I say why sirens white
on blue
With primroses I mean it leaves in
suspense
The inmost thoughts of minds in
all directions
Language drains all the way here and
forms
A concept cows refuse to nibble an
image no
Longer joined in life a bad egg
rotten head
Fish belly sky O will it rain
or snow and if it rains
It may rain sardines this light no
self-respecting
Potato pie would envy and still the
fly’s eye
Neither for sale nor for lease near
the ear
Waiting to imitate running water
without
Caring a lick how the day made a
mistake
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