This tide abounding sharp rocks 
was seen thinning into a puce and tawny froth,
whilst rinds must find fresh ways to be despoiled
by these soils.

The moon, sloughed-from-a-lime-light’s still staked slithering away,
as those casuist stars must strike this sky to boil,
 or mustn’t they—

Blunt taupe stalagmites pile through but a crisp winter’s day,
as the occidental songbirds chimed the canebrakes to refrain!

And nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing,
nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, 
nothing about a bald dog is tame— oh no!

These are the things that children say— oh no?
Then what about this nagging, maudlin shame— O
Woe                            is                                        me
who’s left here now to loom gravy— of this,
the entrails of a jörmungandr serpent?