Not Unfinished

three hours
standing in the pouring rain
and the leaping windstorms
opening doors and the plastic army men. we are so
content with the olive green
yes hurdling outwards our fisted hands

one sits about the concrete porch biting his fist. simply-
sitting on the
concrete porch biting hard down on his fist singing
at the top of his muffled lungs after three hours
his pony voice is
rough and caked with
blunt mud. we arranged the croquet set out on the dampened
lawn with great English delicacy forgetting
the harsher tongue
dangling lower from our singing voices
but one is still
sitting with his fist
in his widened mouth.

there are some things not touched some
fallen clear
and peripheral
on the progressive groundwork.

ah lover
my lover
standing three hours in the tangential downpour
holding a glass blown cavalry general in one hand
my lover
standing three hours
while the crepe black funeral horses
drawing forward an edwardian carriage of a painting

of a man in fisted
black and lover
lover the dumbly staring globes are heavy
after three hours
of the rainy deluge. so heavy that four hands are fit underneath them and the rush of water flooding vaguely olive green are encompassing

and immutable