Amongst the hollow shades dressed in ash, blue,
the moon hangs down like a thirsty molar,
waiting to pounce on the gelatin glue
that coheres in dead cow bones’ ice collar:
No one’s there to hear it but the plague, blue
as the darkest day floats above the shade,
ashen as the parched pelt explodes – no clue
as to the whereabouts of the crisp fade:
I, choking on citronella flames -blue
at the horntips, blank and hollow when played –
only remember the flowers that flew
when we tumbled in our own cindershade:
The wind-eye floods with the dust of devils,
and I can only sigh, as sight revels.