Please let me collapse in the world of meaning
Where the waves - walls - of inspiration
Would hit me with a hysterical expectancy of
Hidden emotions, and their
Meanings, meanings, chanting, are my elk-hounds
Riding in black shadows
Across the cold October mornings
Into ice blisters on my stomach.
Itís almost there - in the rustle
Of four feet across the swollen wood
From too much intimacy, running away
Into pools of light by the lampposts,
Away, yet again, away,
Catch me you canít because
I canít catch myself by the tail,
Having outgrown the sun-dials.
My gut is on a riot, it yelps
And turns somersaults in hazy
Drunken salutes to your advancing summers;
And I canít spare myself these indignities,
So itís up to you to free me,
Lest I should cry my own
Wheezy sonnets to the perverse moon,
So rampant in my mouth.