Monday, 10 November 2008

Assarts 37


They flee from me that love me
& even if they do,
the wongs,
after ploughing roll in,
bong, bong,
their allotments, they could also
with their curved faces
& invisible spades,
thats buckets & spades,
& some of the wongs on horseback
now the sea is far away,
look at my dead end
& stop line or almost double chin

& because the wongs were made for loving
& then withdraw,
it was no dream the wongs of may
usually die in this stanza
as the sea tilts & bends
like a badly made hurdle
or horse,
look at my dead misspelt horse
in the sea,
they have so many words for allotment
& will not withdraw
they are so beautiful
in & out of the water
digging the worst deer.