Worming words among ruinous runs of a burbling,
stirred, disturbed, intuitive gut,

this pickled affliction poetry’s pruned from:
shit that, suffice it to say, 
                                              spurs on a bonsai—

peels from a withering rose
such sumptuous blush among silken appendages, maybe
                                        perfected, even

pluperfect before but pregnant terms 
instilled in them stenting symbols,

flickering fumes reborn upon redolent pages pinched
with scraggly sigils,
with svelte and nettling noises
cramping pencraft 
combs from a piling mind,
a throat imploding,
sketchy ideals dredged 
from a smirking scarp or a swan’s comportment, 
freckling fox kits craned to a godling’s glaring genius,
gibbering goldenrod, strident cries of inviolate bluegrass,
rhytons reprising plump or departing moons—

just as a far and conceited star unfurls
in runs of neurotic and chronic decay
these glorying oils sloshed across 
bristling barks and leaves illumining—

all of immensity tunes to a finicky feeling
begging the bees to bumble,
                      trees to weep, 
                      glib flies in glorying promenade
                      dance as damsels damnably freed
                      or untethered from tortuous towers,
            tabards cathected,
clothes encoded in cumbrous tones,
the brilliant chitter of blithering bilboes 
(stirred to an awkward itch or an achy sonnet,
 surly song, a smarting tonsil teased to a tercet, 
 a tiercel’s tirade picking at ponderous scarps or stones,