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when no green hills
When no green hill will drowse
my wake entire,
Then I may kneel before
this ferned altar,
In one mossy dream.
Let truth be told how I rub
my groin with fire,
to keep blaring an empty
guttural scream.

The sulphrous moon,she pitched a shroud
round earth's emerald corpse;the moony
sun he will not copulate.
And no new element be laboured to life
to tilt my seesaw-self back to the ground.

An ochrous field lie ripening before me,
Are blood-delicious fruits filled thus
with fleshy pus,
carve with flesh a masted statue did
one prostetic-armed artist-bleed images

Let the world announce how I rub with fire my wormy groin which blazes like
an ancient pyre.
It will burn tallish-green like
a grass spire.
Can a cancerous life be treated
by dreaming of cures,
Or pose the answer to these frond-clothed Doctors.
Then I may kneel at the whale-walled altar,and be gone
like water in a stone.