it is in the green

of the ancient night

summer flustered

with a spinning destiny

I hear trees talk

old trees young trees shrubs

humming like dynamos

with the I lost in breath

and a watery voice

beneath the calling

of so much more

a viscous night

runny with cockled sea

beneath a bright spring moon

pulls smooth water at will

in the eyes believing

man made waves roll

fish bite in the dark

mariner seaweed

teem with brutal extinction

the phantom is a feeding chain

the night is very old clock

a cockled watery pendulum

swinging spidery legs

over wet sand weight

where I one day will sleep

***

I never saw dragons

as full-fledged intentions

flying on flags or beer-mats

raucously scaled and fierce

breaking red fire

over bones and silly bards

hiding with their poetry

where lush grain

turns into liquid gold

and dead fish sizzles

in abandoned frying pans

early at light’s knife edge

the one still moves

small words around

in search of a solace

an aftermath

to roll like bright thunder

beneath the roaring sun

where serendipity and swans

tell the silent tales of trees

at the bottom of Spring Hill

where water is only water

teasing life with its dragon tense

***

the night smells of dark luminol

on old brittle parchments recoiling

with white skin boy dying

dark armies march with all men

one fire death can muster

in an old English garden

it is in the green of it

four-legged creatures begging

burn with pride

one rolled down the hill

just to please her

and her green eyes

one sat on windowsills

doved and sparrowed

before the tarped light

the tide was whisper sighs

ruling with slow eyes rolling

over spidery eddy beach

I see no reason now

to bereave the winged creature

his goodbye