mapped out stars to yonder tither  (transmutation of evermore)

​In the garden, we used to sit, eating buttered biscuits,

laughing. We were reduced to enjoyment.

Blaze. The simple days of evermore.

Asleep await with languid longing.

Forevermore. Forevermore. Forevermore.

I used to love each separate day

like seven cherished separate children run

wild round the yard in play, and we,

a crawl, a tortoise, a dream,

with buttered biscuits, laughing.

The things we would say.

Those things we have said

to each other, the butter, our ambling ways,

they’re gone. Gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

Gone. Gone.

That daze shot dead as ducks

with drear.

Now we are dying

beguiled by looming, wearisome demons

in the guise of a beautiful, idle presentiment

spat out and hammered like venomous train-tracks

from the lying mouths of miscreant fakers.

Where is the luster? Where is the sheen?

Where is our butter and biscuits

and dream of a drawn-out, meandering spring

of lolling softly in the garden?

Gone forever and unremembered.

We uprooted the garden to make more room

for things

The things of function and fortune.

There is no room in life

for a biscuit, half-buttered,

or an hour of gesture

For we have discovered the genius of others!

We have uncovered the truth in eachvother!

All other impulses,



copyright: C. Ward 2017


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