Dead are the daisies in their
bodies withered –
He of all that milksop dew
how feckless plays his drifters tune.
I wait, how bitter thin I am bitten
as low blows my lovers prodigy.
Left redundant, sea beach stranded
scuttles the storm, on brown paper folded
Dreams are not dealers trinkets
traded to soothe the belief of hungers bite.
I sat you down high tide ebbing
glass bones, inconsequential thoughts
melding to rise –
now hurled upon some other shore.
March 29th 2015