Chaos is eccentric else, among the green Habiliments of this disease, This earth, this atmosphere We sicken of and breathe. The arrant mind 5 Ticks like a cockvane in a white sky. Blackly circles the tragic thought of death Around an empty farm: the false, shadow-sharp Concern that it invented. Past tipped buckets And abandoned calves, lonely for their mothers, 10 Sick-eyed mermaids maunder in their scales, Electric after A crumpled pail 15 Of the pure, chiaroscuro myth.
From the collection "The Cabana at the Equator"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.