St. Brigid 
patches in

to lead 
a way out  

of the great 
swamp dismal. 
 
Back to solid ground. 
Pound. Pound. Pound.
 
They see hog 
and baby ugly sounds.

I see Pound's 
freak repeating hymnals.

Where threads
find chutes

weaves hurl 
opaquely through 

a buzzing fluttery mist
le dommage is brisk.

Huff and puff
in need of horse 

having fallen off 
the horse bean.

To set across 
where angles drawn

blood grows thin
fills up with wind.

What not to do 
what not to do!

Embers trigger 
set it off

burns at threads 
for clews.