Downloaded the bedrooms windows, on a cloth like the soft cheeks of a child
Pound by pound, led by a painters sunflower I’m hastily called by the mild taste of saffron
Powerful violins strike a standard, paved by guilty dogs of war
Sour and dulled by storms passing along the craven hills, mauled my ancheint understandings
Screens capped by hail, flashing flasks of festival wines
Trap, trap, the folded tangled, growing wispers
