in alcoholic mid-morning fields

young boy dreaming
nothing will scare you,
the spoons inside, pool
to sea and sall screams back to you

the foolish floats
as a hook waiting
a throat of wren singing
and I am laying now down
for tomorrow

baby-milk sky
the nautilus dried fruit sun
seeing and sawing
I magnet the compass
until the north stops spinning
the mothe rumbling, mumbling
stumbling upstairs

and the stars are looking
to find you (see if you)
are looking for them