2 till four. Clouds hang back and brain is dead. Real feel, 106. I'll prick my lips with cocktail sticks to check that I'm alive. This mute and frigid air. This stupid swamp.
Take your boat out on the lake where the land sinks to flatness, and float and wait. Clement ripples sloth to shore; through verdant ridges slung in cloud
Namaste to you too, soft-voiced nicey-niceys with your facile Jesus glints. When forced benevolent grins part those slender anaemic lips,
Here the horror of life is stark No feint or fake can dodge it. Ply this track between sodden fields Where strays marshal buffalo And the lake backdrops all. Breathe this clotted air,