Beneath the arc of the rounded rainbow ley
Whistled the lark as the arrow lost its way.
The Blue lightless perfect-colored obfuscaire.
Still supine, I crossed the sandy veil
Falling forever through each measure;
All moral minds sentinel
Falling to Hell
Breathe together,
Farewell.

The circle we drew as we moved but tried to look down was wiped away with the sound of the morning rooster's crow... His tail was tied to a hammer and he dragged it to the horizon.

In the hallway outside my bedroom door, I heard the old dead sleigh gliding to its restful drones, purposely knocking the pictures off their nails. With a vacancy ogling my sober inhalation, our curator's rocking to the rhythm of the rain on her carved hair here in this room, with the inverted torches at its barrier, where materia vibrated out. Its vibration left a plume climbing its way up a blue-blessed curl, which was girdled by aurora of obliging black morel. Then, I called and cried out while I minded the bell that dangled crazily close to the edge of the basin of the rain which fell. (It fell in the shape of a birfurcated ammonite shell).

A beacon as blue as a bowerbird's eye in the morn, A poem written in threes over four, My oeuvre based on the coy and forlorn, Another boy's parallel night in the harrow, And the quiet decline of my questionable rhythm. Disinterested forever in upwards motion, I hung out by the white chalk letters.

I watched my body move and let it.