do i dare to call this land a lawn

in the grass i have forgotten to speak of,

or a slight mistake in personality?

sightly ass claiming land on red. red as in not color,

but a flogging or translation of blood.

is blood too bright? think of the pressure gifted to a wound,

wound as animal and animal, rightly, as infection.

and what of translation; a dog that cannot

bark unless every dog in the world is hurting

and do i write slanted and light, or press harder,

and shape emptiless space into cubes, houses, a metaphysical poet...

what, with their heroic couplets as lame and limp, what,

with a peach hollowed out in the form of Eliot's teeth i, you,

wolf to push it aside

and to then hurt into tears

mistaken for spit from nightmare to mouth pressed

at the base stomach of masculine,

shirtless affectation; imagine the wolf's thought-

the difference between most/many, few/a few-

in the arms of the hunter,

a cusp of a cymbal waving on watered light.