Bombsighted on Apteryxes

Before this hour, and it's drain a feast,
Thursday had brought us dewlaps,
and played the mellisonant band.

Lets have been guided by invidia,
heads shaken, and I'm thinking of how
the blackguards grow, I'm thinking a
whit of this ringing back through time.

There is no time here, though my bed
is checked for wetness. I am presenile,
hooting from sobbing, and erstwhile, onetime,
prospered in the pleasant flights of apteryxes.

If you listen, the minutes are in me
swift and twisting; they enter so softly,
passing me nights as on blackened stilts—
oh you dark and harmful bits. You frig-years,
bombsighting and aging me from the phantasms.

These minutes take from the bee fuzz,
to the texture of bark upon the cutis,
make faces of cold, rippled philo, or
from among the youngest, the story
going smoothly into comedones and papules,
then doughy into liverspots and ruckles.

Swayed and low among the dodos,
the subsisters, laying in wait and in a row,
I watch the sloping lines.