In the wine cellar I learned history

sodden rag tattered lessons of
slurred maroon deep
slumbers. She’s the gut
to blame it on.

Straight to the stars. Four fingers
all points. Deep
in the cloven pine fisted
notched and wasting
for this?

Fauna sheds itself
to sleep. Skin mottled and mul-
berry the year
ages.

This particular alignment
astrologers slept
and traced with chyrsalised
eyes. The end.