This apparition on the roof, did not
- and I’d like to stress that –
have any anatomy,

The mute man making his balcony
a stage; frightened to look the
balustrade in the eye.
His rage is a felony to the rye;
his dumbness apology to be shy.

This fragmentation stands aloof, was not
- does it need specification? –
a murmur of the mind,
for what it’s worth.

O well, he saw the mist and mystery,
licking the glass-bitumen bye.

The little cosmonaut ‘wards the moon, was not
- I’d like to make this clear –
misanthropical at all,
merely more clever.

The main man watching sorrel dock and
plantain; anxious to meet
the weeds apace. Did he, or
did he not see the core
business in returning mental bore?

Gosh yes, he gasped at all illuminations,
picking prosperous additions going by.

Neighbour’s talk is neighbour’s witness and
friend’s talk means friendly business,
but the friendly talks just mess
with misses:


Negligee and numerous kisses, or
night falls on nightly wishes;
yet they watch and walk with nu-
merous ambitions.

(‘Though he cries.)

For evermore he cries in anger and his feet are
bare as angles;
bare as angels in a blue beholding sky.

Tie or dye!

M.J.C.A. March 2004