Grimbeau

Miss call: med at four-thirty,

crying along to baby blue,

dead time.

Weeping real tears,

old voices of old friends in the messenger,

dead romans,

Nile vipers, alabaster elephant pups;

dimwit twisted garrets,

dimlit deep sea divers,

cement boots, aquarium skidlids.

Down the lane

at the hanged man’s house

wild beasts drive,

whistle in the woods,

absinthe oglers

naked ladies

paddle in Pull-in’s Pond.

Tears stream down cheeks,

bandanas lattice plaits of stars,

milky ways of cast off

unravelling cloth.

Acknowledge the bible

scribblers on the credits,

disappointed briefs

and wiseacres arrange things

good and proper…warm blooded nappies charm the sinews,

joints glow:

perhaps a cosy nap

before crisp morning

cracks the whip.