MOWED POEM

who am I or ask, since he left, there remained
no consolation in early nature, and snatched
from us all rest, a spark of air, he replied
which it obeys, even in spring, but bound
nothing worse, if we have been afrighted, since then

earfield

I desired, blind breath, as of hope
       the most fervent picture will be of this, our wandering
so different, so heaped unto summer
       who at that time, no lounger finds rest, but the manner
goes on to the next, to the text, in nerves finer

weremouth

to be alone, but all pleasure, don´t tell anyone
       I gave it a name then and the dwindling, but she
to the utmost, I felt a lack, brought on
       takes no time, no height, who could abide it
asking the way to get lost, not that it end here

fish

whoever sees me
the way I throw fish
about me
with what a strong
snapping gesture
they bite the air
whoever sees
how these fish
offer their
suddenness
in flight
how their gills
appear to fight
over monsters
that resemble words,
that person will think to himself:
ha! yet another one
who throws fish about
because he´s short, alone,
forsaken, cruel and nuts to boot!