We are not a pretty flower, Or man aged six, two, one hundred, three, But a single flat rock tardy whistle, that, Steps in before a perching bird, We are not. We are not the nonsense word, who, Slinking out in wicker-wood feet, once, With the wine and swagger of a gangrel man Who, pats his breastbone, red it goes, We are not. We are not the prologue, selfish, No; we fill the heads with irony scents, Thorning like a harp string, yawning moons in sleep, Parting in for-get-me-not beds, We are not. We are not the decisive ground, Or single tutting tongue, but, we see Dust wheels, thin hips, lips, possibilities, that, Busies our cadavers, sucking, We are not. We are not the favourite word, Who drew a curtain on knocking life; Or rolls a harsh dominion, bending in the rain, But sound asleep, intrigued, lost; We are not.