Serrango

They are physical, Cumæan, they
are the willful cannots of a heart-
head threaded with infinite vines,
whose fatiferous iron goes mete
where the two foot saws its sum,
and muses the sway from the yaw
to the castanet.

Dark ivy.
With the arc
I vy.

All shivery
in its mushroom
overcoat.