The plies of march sing under felled,
Golden leaves,
Strewn about a canvas of
Sediment.

I sometimes look back on these things
And laugh. Their tenor is gross with
Fallen limbs, and plastic
Bumpers.

The fall had slewed my tastes
Away from the physical
And into halls of translucent
Bodies –

Always wishing
For spectres to befall
Them in the face of egregious whim
At the tassel of a maiden;

Tugging and seizing it against
Thumb and forefinger,
Like the traces of a soaring
Spheroid

Barrelling past doctrines
Possessed of older lattice and
Convex in the mirrored sun,
Where parchments shade brown.

Again the result drew closer to the
Bear of giants and other creatures of
Stature. Like the want for
Crying insurgence.

So now, lad, we tread
The silence in the golden hills
And reap the anachronism
At the receiving end of minced flesh.