Aug 262011
Chaos is eccentric else, among the green 
Habiliments of this disease, 
This earth, this atmosphere 

We sicken of and breathe. The arrant mind 
Ticks like a cockvane in a white sky. 
Blackly circles the tragic thought of death 

Around an empty farm: the false, shadow-sharp
Concern that it invented. Past tipped buckets 
And abandoned calves, lonely for their mothers, 
Sick-eyed mermaids maunder in their scales, 
Electric after 
A crumpled pail 
Of the pure, chiaroscuro myth. 

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