again.
what have I got to give?
tell the hundred gold men I am here still
crouched like floor weed in vacancy.
‘terrible’ works for a hundred words;
trepid, carnal, loose or thoughtless
too sterile or stagnant, a thought like cargo
carried on by backs uneager, a hundred lazy
no-good drinkers
say ‘come shot or drink or cup or Shine’ .. might as well
a hundred cradles bury alive.
I give to you, complete with sorrow,
vinegar for you. And make clear that you should liken it to I;
my hundred clangors to season
and freckle your life.
judge for your flesh ‘who dies in it?’
and lest we be fruitful here
let it in again. let me in
nathanael.ink 
Leave a comment