December 18th

Such was refrain, the coarse well bricked, Petit proferred~
read, then read again, pollen puff briefs in pan air
to a seedbed, them climbing broke chairs, hosted and all.

As a few that test are knight, sipping prills
half headed in drafts his light airs scented~
ripe air tunes course the oblong hall just enough

to settle me, as if all could thorn, suppose. It's good, I thought,
to dawdle, lines overt, drag them loose, hole smooth cut
to tall my back~with such serations, I'll court any king.

I'll court any king's refrain, his rinsed vocabulary
'til stout, tested, as easily lifted as dust
flew inside the dark. Then, I met some friends, again,

the many-headed kings trench for, sensitive eyes
wide onto their wear. Cold year end,
in the trammled hall, sip from them. Read again.