but mor cess, and reeds, and hillocks, I write
what spell with vengeance a colossal blooming
body no room or spans, swards, swads, remnants
in sparks, Bluebell held every bough like appendages
bending oaks, bramble, scrub and blossom, swatting
black stealth fungus shaped by irritable fingertips,
slobber, slubber, spook of water, foul church
bogs bones, my magnolia rhododendron blistered
in pissing sways of idiopathic patina cut through
fermenting farmland, intimate time before we dart
downward into antibacterial pastures and marshy
low-lying ground, a petrified sunfall we’re appearing
in as sufferer mounds slump to whistling orchard
doorway, and withered thickets, and the infinite
conjuration of dewy skirts around monastic ruins
