Thornapple Loch

I pursed pebbles at the banks

of the marsh of my youth

with radio-clasique, 

lulling of love could loom

In time,

In tow

I'd neume:

Solitary waste flies with Surinam toads

onto brassy vines of ebbs and flows,

Flow My Tears

onto webbed walls of plume. 

fore:

the trumpet sounds in the new moon.

Sew my years

through muddled digits of paste

fore: 

my murky greens have scantly skimmed embrace.

cicadas dance chaconnes 

but die off as songs

negate:

locusts fly follies to never see straight

and frogs eat them up

but her-flies do sinew 

BAIT.

I string:

boorish me a boat

and I'll lay three sheets to wind

Holystone and empty rock

will float in solemn solidity to sin. 

and:

on some small windfall that I receive a breeze,

I'll chance be there when a willow comes to walk. 

fore:

muffled sounds of love and all it's antiquities

are risen too seldom from the Thornapple loch