a fishy thing, an old doggerel to fetch a bone withal

whipping wild fish into fashion
while whispering sweet nuttings
into the lips of a crocus
there is a splendour lurking
in the bower eaves
don’t mistake it for
malice or shirking
partisan brimful with
arrogance and spite
(despite?) all these paragons
are wallowing in their own
fortitude drowning in their
own virtue beware the
sneaking suspicion that you
are right write down yr.
whiskered breaths upon
the windowpane cracked
though it is with spiderwebs
and time

discussing fine wine on
the backs of water-
starved fish dry ribs
heaving in the sun
por qua, my dour
cockle-shell? your
dainty bounties are
withering in the
wind wipe those
quiet tears from
off your back–we
have no room for excess
baggage (luggage?)

piecing together the
witnesses to all the
wilted gld in all the
windy treasure boxes
of the world
i’m sorry there’s nothing
more to say when
all the birds on earth
are dead try us
i might i cannot
summon up the
courage to face a
bird-free sky
parlor games charlatan
tricks soupcon of
a garrulous
medicine man
don’t drink the water

neither swim in it
nor bathe or dusk
your flanks in the
dusky dirt
but do wrap up your
sighs in boxes packed
away in livid orange
u-haul trucks store
them away all winter
but beware do not
raise the door too
quick mouldering
winterlong in dust
and shadow (darkness?)
deep secrets have
been growing
secrets deep enough & dark
enow to burst your heartstings

as you like the sparkling
dewdrop painted heaven
so the nighttime
revels dance their
stardust moonbeam
spirals in the
sea shore
once when i was
small & the seaside
shone with life and
bright odors of salt
and sea came bringing
all my sandy wishes
home scuttling crabs
and flopping fish have
become my seashore
friends

time was we’d had
some sorrows lodged
in mind but grief
resolved itself into
something not
quite known before
how to say it? what
in nightly dreams
has made its leave
within my mind
what name would
give this sweetness
breath? …
i don’t know, but
it is worthy to be
praised my word
what a boisterous
sleep i have

to be sure there is
no remedy for past
sorrow it remains
with me forever
i would not part
with my soft sorrow
for all the joy that
lies in world’s
store
unknown vapors crash
throughout these
neurochemicalogical
phantasies and madnesses
and self-made-self
which wanders mightily
questions questions
questions and all
my word-hoard lies
useless in its vault

a found transcription of a thing; also present, though handwritten marginalia: “key in a tree” and “Undset“