Against a quilted cloud fat pigeon sits
thorn top, black lump for any peregrine
peregrinating aching voids within
to fill 'er, savor too all tender bits.
But only gulls pass, shallow ems in air
justifying a child's crude graphic style;
quilted clouds our vaunted luxury while
dusk-cracked abyss floods brief sun-gold down there.
Such straggly peace, time's veins in torpid bliss,
forgets to dose on dessert-spooned coffee,
watching blackbirds forage last apple-flesh.
'Looped and windowed rags'* of January,
deep poverty of her amnesic mesh -
everything we are passes now through this.
......................
*From Shakespeare's 'King Lear' Act 3, Scene 4
