Sucking, so slightly, on the strawed determination
From outside the tip, of the tops of the root.
The hair falls fopishly onto a face with a look,
Holding somewhere between the shaking twigs and the leaves departing.
Are you a swan? With the teacup bone of a fine china.
Or, are you a spit-riddled pigeon with a wingspan of hours. (which shook into a lifetime)
Efforts exhausted, I swim in my trainers, with water still leaking
And red berries bursting. But they're not to taste, not for eating.
Keep moving, keep shaking.
