I guess the rain

In Angleland
where pavement clings
go hug yourself

Three trees are difficult:
mixed meters

familiar rodent grin at the PO
plainness glaze     
fuckpig lines

wall face got up
wall face

The girl shrank back

Glass bled and whispered, "Not long now".

Through Warley Woods

Bent near naked
split oak utters

and the Wood isn't anybody's
secret anymore

Insects cluck from dead floored branches

thick grass in indifferent waves
soft green inhuman needles

Curled up beast sleep buds
pierce low slung air

Wild garlic is coming
until there are delicate wet stars

whiter than
blindness
or ideal teeth

ramshackle sing song       here and there

stickiness
too sweet

tenderness

We two, bruised up, begin
saying, "love", remembering

Woke up faces
are at hand

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