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In a turbid world

with trees atop the swirl below,

there, riding the map, is a hillock,

a wholesome nothing, a head.

I can’t endure this posture,

this collision with consensus.

Let them swarm & founder;

I’ve burnt by softer woes.

That sink of elders,

wrapped forever, sinful,

in selfish copper dreams,

can flay your supper’s nutriment –

cock this sallow freeway

and teem your life with richless nonsense.

Why taunt the stars

and tug the strings to pestilence?

Swans,

never sullied by roughing with dope

can float,

unworried, dreaming, & know the sky

and all below is endeavored by what you provide.