‘Are you finding it perennial between the words or
shall you look up and up.
‘Uh! cloud . please if you do.’
Cold growing distraction
under the needle of hill
In the open sky.
‘cold colder colder it’s almost too tempered.’
Illusion by white fits like a mask,
stipulating recreation out of imagination; until the
strap is cut and reality waxes and the wage of
devotion is meant to look and look.
‘Oh dear, quick wake him up, oh no is he wondering?’
Still, is its fascination.
Men never get weary of its expense: its costly
EXPENSE to the line.
The truth is hidden, just like the lead and shrapnel
covered in crimson.