Feeling your way along well enough
For the circling hawk like a ceiling fan
At the roots of things, stoving clod, sleeves
Itself into mud, swims bog and mire with ease
Wading above waiting hawk wanton gold-feet
Blind as lime-drowned Tommy your touch balances
Supremely tactile, paw eyes and nose ears, taste of noise
Swooping thornlike the Christcrown hawk claws scrape furrows
Aggravations flute the pliant muck, preyless he climbs again
Wretchock not but primed specimen, sort by Druid named
Idolatry yet I defy, despising even, description of it denuding angels.
Alchemisland 
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