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Description
bastions and pools
of bloodless grey ghouls
stalk sober through the night:

in your tangly hair
they are markedly there
laughing, of liquidy spite.

   through the pitch quiet air
i can touch a soft stare:
it falls at my fingers
like fog

through the swampy bright black
i come
wandering back
with bloody toes, yelling a song

to   'spring of the nymphs!'
where daffodils fall like butter
on ground, soiled and sad

your eyelids they turn
like the belly of a fern
soggy and dripping blue spiders--
   all over my chest,
where your head takes its rest

as yellow day   turns   to black turmoil.