Thistles missed by ploughs that rose
Through the snow hare sleeping off
the holes in story’s they can’t cover
Or repair the not now or ever.
as wave chasers awake with no where to go
Chasing dialect and the only version of
The strike of matches only poses questions
that mislead those waiting for a dance
across provinces into the ballast field of Apres
The shadow gardens of a roman
That stood until the fall of a wall.
The chattering veneers pinned on tails
Three box’s of spilt pink clover bowl
Laying Deaf to the wanton needs as the water
Simmered around the river scales.