The Years are Days and the Days are Beasts

Each stalls at midpoint with a sun drome,
beetle-wrought, the day.

I had a rumble likely first, yet was small in form.

How the ripple overlaps tooth, dog tongue
in, out, the day is a panting;

I'll dry in echo-cease likely last,
by some manner shrill.

Do my creeps administer the dropped minutes
in bare glancing,
do my heart-gooder notions entice more feel
of what fleets so readily past?

To each kind, the in, out, likely the day;
I am of a kind.

It's first rolls and cumbersome earth beneath,
then streaks and vent-priss sky across,
and between, stall at midpoint.

I wear a fretter's wonder, even now panting,
wrought, and likely.