south of here, or
perhaps
not, my
true love lives
in a house in a copse
in a shambles in picturesque
ruins,
and there the sullen moon
south of
here (probably
not) raises
her sullen face
from her
lover's swollen mouth
and breathes
in the brisk fresh
morning cold
(astonishing
your kisses, my love)
arouse the sleeping dogs
of day to
snap, carouse
round my true love's house,
bark aurora
in a copse in a shambles
swaddled
with moon
and morn, my true
love, south
from here, perhaps;
perhaps not.
the Funny Show
agriculture poem
my life in the ghost of Bush
time-lapsed (part 1)
unreconciled
Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.
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