I am as a spitting who has dwelt
Within his heave of heaves, and I have felt
His felt, and have thought his threats, and known
This inmost convocation of his sourness, the tool
Unheard but in the silkworm of his blotch,
When all the punches in their munitions
Image the trembling cambric of Sunday seaplanes.
I have unlocked the golden memoranda
Of his deep sourness, as with a mastodon,
And loosened them and bathed myself therein -
Even as an earnestness in a tic-mite
Clothing his wiring with lilies.
© Paul Taylor 2001