Swallowed with a gulp, the end of which
is still middle of somewhere,
going ebb over hands
with the silhouette of days.
Yeah, but it’s all gauze shadow-shirts
singing at the wind
trampling the fir
stirring up names for cravings.
Rushing one course again, what a mess
when it happens year-sure like this,
shooing the cat, a scatting tide
goes while winter, never.