John Keats wrote love letters to his 'Fanny' and they were the dullest scoop of trout to ever die in the sun.

i am hollowed out
and dully thumped against a
log. i am ached and split,
the paper on the sides of a thin
tin can.
where will the big one
rest? where will the coughs of mitre
saws catch- where will the dew recline in it's
sexual war against the sun?
my horn of plenty, my calloused
elbows
my greased bones hang from
the old hook in your garage.

i feel my arms become
dead wet sycamores. i like the way the
glass jar holds the pine needles and
hiccups in the breeze.

'Maybe' asks me if tigers have
caramel flavoured fur and when i come near the
bath tub she is reclining deeply;
her breath bubbling up through the thin skin
of the holy soap.

'Casualty' asks me if i can tell the clock
a story so that when it sleeps,
and it will- deeply,
it will dream of custard and moth eaten
cloaks that a king or a princess or a
fairy queen might have worn.

'Captured', in all of her glory,
sings high among the mountain
and her jade eyes rest heavy on her
glowing copper cheeks.

'Maybe' wants to know if the ducks- the mallards- fly with grace,
or is the wind, a divine flow of the Spirit's breath, in charge of their
travel. I sing a little tune and cup my hands over my ears, hungry for the brrrrrumph of the
coming train.