sand on the fields

i drove a nose across his toes, to ballen weeds and ghacker
i sank a ship to be my lip on salmons bantering cracker
the old man sighed to the cranberry pie and called it a bloody wanker
pigs and pans will sound the hams but not the old man feeble
to see but not a furrowed brow may column upon your keeper
sand to the east
not to the north
i felt loss of my navel
a hand of burgundy wire made scratches deep below my flesh to hardened bones and harrowed

chins...