Seaward

Darling you think it's love it's just a midnightjourney.

Best are the dales and rivers removed by force 
as from the next compartment throttles "Oh stopit Bernie "
yet the rhythm of those paroxysms is exactly yours.

Hook to the meat! Brush to the red-brick dentures 
alias cigars smokeless like a driven nail!
Here the works are fewer than monkey wrenches 
and the phones are whining dwarfed by to-no-avail.

Bark then with joy at Clancy Fitzgibbon Miller.

Dogs and block letters care how misfortune spells.

Still you can tell yourself in the john by the spat-at mirror 
slamming the flush and emerging with clean lapels.

Only the liquid furniture cradles the dwindling figure.

Man shouldn't grow in size once he's been portrayed.

Look: what's been left behind is about as meager
as what remains ahead.
 Hence the horizon's blade.

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