The morning scowls The chrysanthemum face of your disdain Tightly unfolding, you do not Much care for poems, or other Jejune rigamarole Je ne sais pas non plus The flint/schist in yours eyes Has counted days like careful Sails jibing I have the numb lizard tail writhe Of escape, and offering In submission, another useless Fragment of the self Here too is a sunset Diminish until Pinhole bright You are almost gone
