Feed me a slug

and I’ll mutter, 
depending on
what the dew point 
dares to dredge from
fallowed miasma and
hangdog dogwood blossoms,
some scrubbed box-top shibboleth,
tickling, life was hard and people
surprise you, hangnail plastic
burs disturbing a blistered
stencil’s bored out breast
plate pressed to the
shipwrecked sun—see,
 
all of it crimped in an i or an r 
as the iron inters some scar
or impartible clue in the ox-
ford shirt’s scrunched cuffs
or the dandering hackles that
dandle the screw-stripped neck
to deflect, and redundant as 
floundering rounds of a 
frowning or yowling clown ruff,
frisson, cathexis, wobbling
novelty—see,
 
where the stars still barb all the
eigengrau baleen sweeping 
eternity clean, where the
mold means less than
death’s suggestion:
 
sunlight licking some slug trail lean
as eternity, shy as a limelight, summons this
scattershot caterwaul aura up sulking sills
and the seam-ripped bluebells beckoning
everything back, as the knock-
kneed whale wraps rapturous,
season-slow song along throttling
furlongs, throngs of foam-
fraught, seamless sea
suspended in 
bristling 
music—