Seedless Blackberry Jam
A moment how he lowing sits, whoevered in a swing,
eating his bread and packet jam,
while lude, vociferous roses pry the last gasps of air
from the afternoon dead, suddenly Sunday;
oh my misters toss stale crumbs like lovely minds,
about my gander gorgons, and the lake rises,
but not the fresh breadman, his voracious life
no less temporary than a sloth's time,
and when the roses cover him each their bundle,
there is a moment beneath which he lowing sits,
and the geese crawl under, and the misters crawl under,
one and one after to drop their skins, loving rags.
The jam is taken in, tasted, blanket for a sense,
and then the hungry man too crawls under.