here's the way the word works:
one, that I only lonely speak
at the two of the moon, and
why, that I whispering shout
at the scream on the wind, of
you, in the room with your
hands on the clock spread, to the
tick of the lock on the door,
like the bell in the head, of the
eye, through the hole in the leaf
of the how, do I sing in the night,
me, with the shoe in my hand
since the lamp where you stood
sounds, like a keen on the taste,
of a river of patches gone green,
loud, as a hovering lawn
on the slip of an island of
stay, till the sentence is done,
when the sentence begins in the
quivering, wavering howl
of the opening end of a, play
lucy meskill
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