Where's the poem
where's its lord
The way he vaccumed
makes me think,
the poet's marooned

shrinked by the thrist
he crossed,the door to mirage
between the hibiscus' corpses,

One morning in the
very wake of Indian summer
I unperched readying to unravel,
the mystery of mighty Horizon
But I fell off
'cause I was deplumed.