to-and-fro

 

still the spelter of a very tiny army

tenting its hands for the great spyout

on haunches rapt

 

my phlegmatic heroine summons himself to seat herself

gaggled at the sunshine

of the artificial horizon

 

the weeper doesn’t understand

and cries out sorrow

with a mocking laughter

 

to-and-fro

we go

amid the snow