Salutations 

sap of the maple had stalled in the notch
where a pale yawned beneath a cold more cold
than a hearth on mars- 
soup stained with absolute malarky 
like a lens on an antville 
burning the work of a casual outing
with an inward bin of rubbish
and desire.

slain by the sweet furies unannounced in your frailty
compiled in the eye of your alarm.

you said “ Hello “.