Some Swan Headless Moves Into the Sun
Between brussels,
shoved little moor from above.
My rocket was aimless, the insanity
of rosemary reaching
usual things
with sound, the sound of tents. Enormous
Flowers sound swan body shadows.
Take
Me.
We happen
below the sun, if there
aren’t thousands guttered,
circling above,
soon to hear the black and dalmatian,
soon to leave one eye for rolling, say a way
now close in thunder. This vent
high sky patterns
in fits, flower prints,
private gardens wanting forever on a hill.