Hold, fleeting kestrel, hold the draft above the pines.
Inanimate adjuster, one who refines,
who is marvelled, whose great achieve-of is
Stillness. No other living Stillness is as fine
as the windhover’s, who halts
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I have lived no more than a child,
Been made a plaything of the fates
And choked with dreams
Distorted through plastic walls of water, its own house of mirrors,
fast moving technicolour machinery:
an orchestra conducts Scream Symphony in C Minor.
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Hissing and frothing murky depths,
lapping up her depraved turf, seeking hidden seashells.
Crashing and pounding against
dishevelled garments, bunched up to her waist.
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Every time she was reminded of it
Through brutal words and scenes and glances.
And she stuck her head in six times a day
But sure, you have food poisoning
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