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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I how could i know him his eyes say but my eyes reply which of us may speak to that be busy in the house that needs fixing despite histories in three and homes as safe as the clicking of gates and grassblades fidget at hems where summer whispers bluegrey hands of the watering can tuck layers against its lime-rimmed chest II he rips and hacks down and stacks the rubbish hastily where the garbage bins once sat and even those were absconded off in the short days after what transience his playhouse has framed now makes a curious fence for bikers towing their children or friends chastening friends perhaps your anonymous landlords under the roof in the carshop are objects as phantom as their own shadows where the oilcan floor receives a calcified light where congealed baydoors face clotted to the life growing hardy and peculiar below the synonymous rooftop III a dry-lipped curve of water finds nerves beneath seventeen windowbars so that all is safe and the insides are secure they rumor threats and do they make those too armed with the fact of so many bars she sobs and the way my nerves shake like grass-light and the bald man there with the timid grip looking at her where even the garbage bin is gone i rarely do see her once i saw her smile furtively suddenly a vulgarity in earshot my brother coughs laughter off his gridlined paper to me or to the world or to the story he was written into and i laugh a foreign neighborly coin IV hit the rode jack plays splashes of whiskey we jesters overhear police uniforms walking heads down their feet chaperoning them from the backyard the screwed up faces of strangers cum luna you ever see anything like that and the other bursts a reflux of no up from his throat seen bodies but not like that man all of this in the synoptic lidless eye of his flashlight hit the road jack plays obscenely for the residents and absurd vultures pick for audiovideo giblets well the cats have a new place behind what is for us the portcullis of our home V the cat is notorious from the flyer on the pole the father fixes everything he can and transient eyes look upward in the night at catshadows scratching the air our fence was his playhouse was his rubbish is a ribcage young ones arent a problem but we still need to keep watch because no one will do it until someone does it and then everyones doing it
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