He Lies

He lies in stern on some praised grass

His head tucked, bowls prude to the Moon

With a chest that ravages an open wound;

A tiger of suburbia, an Edwardian countess

He digs his fingers in the soil, brown will stain the face

Of reared coasts— his nails are shores defiled by ecstasy.

The rump is masted by a flag of insolence

And he thinks ahead, bound by his mother’s fear;

Where he will lay on some praised grass

With his head tucked, entangled to the Moon

Searching for a cause he’ll never see.

His eyes shape him, nebulas swoon him

And if he were a boy he’d glug the salt,

Though his legs are rib-bones and red to fault

In a waters eye; he seems to drown;

Turning to the air in his head, he cries

‘Not only are they a truss of conviction

But they dance in weary contradiction!

Ah, I have spreed too much, to many natures

Have shown me where the source of beauty lies

And with that creation, bides; 

The source is the mouth where each tide cries!’