I don't want anything scripted for me,
No milky clouds of cattails blown away,
No pink rash flaring up without my say,
No mourning songs from jars of mystery.
I won't grow forests dark with
The sky extends his sable hand
Over the poplar row;
The moon, a withered and vague thing –
Contracts her eyes of snow.
From orc-like pupils, dim as wreck –
A silken thread unwinds
And weaves
AS