Not A Poem

The heirs’ rumpled green clothes of
a dusty faced poet lounging

under, unacquainted, my not so
languid weakness;

the burning role, repleated gray,
through a parried absence.

The perforated dividing line and Davidian
chord around waist, bended,

decision, liaisoning with herds,
close, held to a foal high blight

of empty Zion’s wayless sleep.

A bloodless coo
I hear
on my hands

A mud flipped slew
I eye
on my lands

A rare balmed lip
I trip
in the stands

A birdless flue
I spit
on my hands