this was the dust flickering golden: on the paths
the verges the little christ's heads cracked in two
- and the south too the alps the shadow there
had a sea.
let's moonshine schnapps the pears are turning
church-wall yellow, the towers sporting their onions. earth
dreaming was material. grandfather s. took the hands of women
he caught
in plaster cast. crossing the meadows through large-pored dust
one or two got away. pish-the-bed. pussy-toes.
his share lay handy in the attic, a fingers' dream in white
he barely
dreamed. mighty through cauliflower leaves by the abbey shimmer
the souls of the village. a sow littered in all the colours of the rainworm
and leashes of rain joined the upper and lower provinces the
bavarian
shore-lands. the way the hillside graveyard slips and the fields
skew to a single sound like craw-craw-craw's-taes and wirsels
yoursels thonsgranweans and my head are drawn by the clouds
across the mucked paths
this loving dust.