This fabulous frowning sky
peeling down her gown of milk
weeps with us for what’s forlorn
and still is visible for the ancient eye
flushed and swimming down upstream
against all odds in darker hues of blue
what the fickle fate is this swarm to us
a poem, a letter of love, a home?
all we do is sing and shedding soul
kneelin’ alone beside the fire
smell your armpits as reliable
as the swallowing hedgehog
in the shrubs declaring the dark
as snug and better hug
than all our favourite fuck
image: Weeping Willow by Guido Utermark