He was a folk singer once.
The war was his guest
in the Nepalese bedroom.
The peaks all done up in flowers.
He sang of marginalia, sweetly.
The wind was also sleeping
on its stomach, the open umbrella.
listening to the rabbits prophesize.
He sang of mangos and girls
on the beach with their transistors.
A star fainted at the grocers. Take one.
There was a women’s revival in the outback.
The face no longer load-bearing, it is
the face of the beggar’s employer
and the bodyguards are downstream.
There were free drinks still to be had.
Flip this meadow for a profit.
This is either love or an outlet.
Every night ended in the Duke of Wellington’s tongue.
The greenest phantoms own pet breezes
which know your name, so they can find you in the water.