A Head of This

And in the only way it could,
makes me try. The way this adult does.
“Don't cry, my child, don't cry”.
Forewarned.
And see. And listen to, “I can't bear it.”
And I think. This. What is it, looking? At?
My shape? The indent of loss? Margin of great?
Now, it’s Spring.
And so my turn, just. I can't bear. Quite.
Sure, all this medicine, making me ill,
the way a thread is
pulled. Held so, snapped. Dismembered,
we are dissolving. I remembered that.
So in a way, away from all these whispers
sprung and swept aloft soft dew, I saw.
Ask me if I care?
I would be in.
I'm.
Last night
I dreamt of Lewis Hemp; forest man,
shifts in tone, for wolves chase,
my mother chaste
tripped over scrunched up words,
poked me with my shame, slaughtered
sounds to render new, b-o-l-s-c-h-e-d-up bro-
-ken foot.s.S.S. Boarded hopeless 'Brookes’.

A Head of This

Slaves. Poor we. Their ghostly, wailing moans.
Such skies, I cry.
Shiver, in orchestral response,
how do you penetrate a mystery?
Camorra and Cosa Nostra know. Last Post.
David Landau seated. Stop.
Turns a Head of Jake. From this I understood,
climb to her, turn for the stars,
resolve, to, sit. Stay. Heal.