Squirrel: Book III
by
There are those who fly it o'er their fellow-men
With most prevailing: yet those who unfurl
Their vanity tails, to browse away
The comfortable bark and smoothy acorn
O torturing fact!
Teetering branches
That, through an idiot blink, a misfired trigger
Fire-branded hunters sear up and singe
A maple tree's wide ripe squirrely hopes.
With not a tongue
Oh, sanctuary of splendour, not a sight
Able to face an owl or a drone at night,
Bleary-eyed no news nations,
Where crowns celebrate flacons .
Unleashed beasts,
Fearfully nod to the acorn tree
Tip-toeing the dull skies
Gathering strength like the
Perch of a pole vaulter
These fierce intoxicating tones
Of trumpets, shouting after bamboozling baboons
With humming cannons that will moan
When unwakeful ears
Clap like thunder in
Babylon.
Are these regalities gilded mask offerings?
Are these seatible unscaleable thrones
The constant spell of the ethereal squirrel?
Or can a ladder be birthed to approach the
Abysm of he who hums, mouths and kisses the beloved Acorn?
Oh Apollo!
As bees gorge their cells
Thy sweet cream sickle smoothie is thine
When thy gold breath reverberates like
The moaning squirrel
No tail is more resplendent
No cheek is more cheeky
Than yours that blesses
Spatially
Sorted nuts in their plutonic and nutritional order.
