Sunday 8 July 2018


the finical 
    here flushed 
to zero for 
all pause in 
the margarine 
mouths as only the 
knocks and tunes in 
reactor limps 
out o'clock 
starts seed, 
         in the 
arching and 
the drilling pieces 
sirens off the hook 
 sinking upon the 
moments of closing 
its own reward, 
the old 
sky tips its 
word title, 
on ugly little 
flowers, so 
sun glows 
because of it, the 
cloth is singed 
soft the
 trade points 
your hands 
and feet