You shouldn’t see

this circle of blue.

 

I know you shouldn’t see

the pumplines blowing

long wooden slats

as the green flows

from the earth,

 

as silver foam gushes

from the grate below.

 

You needn’t know

of broken poetry

spilling from the lines,

 

opened by shovel strokes

in the dun light

damp earth falling out

drying in next day sun.

 

Sweat over beard,

the brandy swine.

 

I don’t want you

to see

the way I’m turning,

to know

this circle

of blue.