in your drydens of old leaves

"with a lyre in his hand
he used to go each morning to watch Russia go up in flames" --Khlebnikov, Vol. V. iii.

"I am the former Wykeham Professor of Logic."

     "Sonnets to Chango: XII."

Cannot keep the air from fleeing, foible
of winter, nitrogen snowfall, regroup whilst
all things dwine & darken & i am the walrus
no more. Against this, what of other mischief?
a film shown on the clouds by steampunk vodka,
a dance of death to beguile the abstract pilgrim
& only changeless Charon be our refuge.
All our arguments tend to end in massacre
whether vegan diet, whether sculsh
the future belongs to a nomad who is joyful
& Pyrrhonist, can retrofit a popsong anthem
or coax new plantings to stay. The subfusc accent
depends on you. The conygry is spoilt.
I write my next dire longpoem wholly in Pygmy.