dying the young fantod

i was alone
when
my philosophical valve closed
with a little




phoot




now. to be opened only occasionally.
when i look up in between, or when ants make lines
or when the summer monsoon breaks the winds
upon fond memories.
yes. a daimen tearing of the routine.

perhaps. it's bled out the perennial streak
running in this hunter's vein
like deep-struck sow thistle thickening
and turned settler over supper.

now. opened only occasionally
when persistent knocking, hammering rather
sends it spinning, un-controllably
the ashes off the cigarette end, smouldering.


can we really catch the larks
when the sky
falls?