artlessness on a friday
and they’ve put the grit down-

no sky, no smell of fire
no fire-burned char just

blood-flat london.
a split open arm in some tug of war


Hare meets Gnome: Kenning

Sack-eared witch-zipper of the wild seas of grass
darts drunk through a crazy-paved mouth of flowers.

Small Sir: bell-hatted monkey of the beds, watches silently-
his one still eye on a single ebony breast-
the crone of clouds that spills like oil across her haunted torch.