welling up from its eyes

(millions of blind minstrels)

already dew-laden
my miscanthus sleeves
are flowering nothing
is really any fun today
because you've always
got to pay for everything
from civets to albufera
in the sane revolution
a person goes walking away
hazy in the evening rain
once a city now a field
since the beginning
a gorgeous gruesome
untrustworthiness i
turn down my lantern
and look at my own
bizarrely petaled tendrils
day is about to break
imponderable and touchless
a warbler needs no revenge
on our tormented castrated society
on the hot and hostile sun
a warbler to its last
is in epic calculation
joy is gliding
flight is fun