It was never the sort of religion you could
take with you when lost on the bowling lanes
To the smoke house west of here a stones
Throw to the thoughts of being Reborn
anything more than a pipe maker.
Struggling with childhood addiction to the
phonics of being seen and heard.
Amongst the silent forest of a burnt
Out lumbering automobile industry
Fallen on the merchant of rubber plants
with Rusting Springs i recline.
Bluebells to walk Bare feet in the satires
of fairies whispering games
amongst the names
All but lost for ship wreck of streams
And are you still conscious of Geared sails
that take you Furthered when unfurled.