to do with the price of tea in China

Has not the hatch at four o’clock.
Not bar-close, Ouroboros, our need

To be taken down ten­derly,
Dawn-ward & spiraling—

Nor have my mid­night bit­ters
Gone Earl Grey, a team of wild-mare

Spir­its dragged behind a team
Of drown­ing bodies

Steered lucid to their death, no—
Salve, no—Sun

(has nei­ther weeks nor months
to say noth­ing of seasons)

As where lungs inspire: Life’s idea
Of rest is both epic & pending

To say need­less, to say leave me
This snake around my neck

Or else untouched, as food
For thought is mere dew drop

Or if pearl-strung: has not orbit
Has not steeped long.

Lemons—the bag-lady’s eyes
All a-scurvy—bound-to-beg

The ques­tion of the fruit­ful­ness
Of falling: has not leaf-change, has

Boat-steam not obscured things
Hasn’t night a higher thief

Than brute form? Reflec­tion, say.
And now, say water color.

Bluish con­stel­la­tion sweat­ing
Bul­lets through the dark

Noose, loos­ened noose, that whore
Of a noose— Lavish Dread.

Let down your hair, this time
I drink to you.