Warmth and Hunger

The simple garden wild in pursuance Does die with the dull lands And mid-morning screams its voice At day: “You are here at last!” Of all weakness, odd-blue Is not a symptom of health But the tinge of floral skin Basking in flaccidity, And meals of medley are The languages of longevity Such as the concourse, The concert of speech and sight. There is a dearth of dystopia The dry rills rest – respite.