Tuesday, 3 February 2009


The sky is rabid with stars,
A sick, blue stew
Curdling with salt rocks,
A squirm of counterpane
Tickled with rips,
A puncture full
Crunching spill
Pucker of pips.
The stars annihilate
the dark sweep.
No Artemis, no arrow poised,
No subtle scythe
or fattened pie.
Just a rabble,
A ricochet,
rocketed and raucous
A shining, whining
Many eyed

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