The meadow Flowers are made of bones to
craw-back – it shafts deep to splinter 
sides – pink walling body and slough 
like oversweetened orange pips
with maggot fruit flies and ants 
drinking sugar-blood Blossom. 
Where the sky is lit like old film – 
all overbright across that schatten scape. 
Where dream wears Lavender at the wake. 
Where sleep is another haunting.

This Girl has no face – she sees
those children shuffling through the
underneath path,
grabbing figures, like Dandelion
Teeth – all along nighttime Roots
from home –
raised by fingering into Dreamnight.

Girl – hair drag and
slick back, mud water –
sweat oil and tar to
tasting the mud cake
outta deep-points of
drowned estuaries to – push
thames-might that beat beat beat
drum that grind and crush of cogs
in factory-smoke-metal sear to
rich cunts in boats to war planes
to bronze pots – all the while
cows graze and the winds wind
through abbey-brick-stone –
the same way the clock will weave
across the age and the same way
you’ll keep getting Flowers from me.

And greasing over the earth,
bleeding black into Marshwort which
creeps all Ivy-night
as the clouds turn
along with its tendrils
into straining tendons,
spreads them out and fucks the insides
scattering – Irises drag out, pull
in the purples and pink
to green-black and the Leaves
and that hair.

When I stand up again this
blackness will slick out of me –
and they will know – and watch me.
They watch while I can’t sleep.