Not the air I'm sleeping under, aloof
A weakening ray of light upon the lawn;
No fleck of paint on the ledge
On the wind-swept road to Old Bawn
Not a deepening grimace in the dirt
Like stones scrumming their mute erection
The beaten up walls of the owner
A written magician conjuring rooms
Like every thinking skull that's made of clay
Picking his brain as lips begin to murmur
That insects know the rote of your decay
No, the slow blend of one day to the next
Like soup, their silent language as time’s passing
Through the house is
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Submission Name: Gobbldegoop
