Womb-wattle and Daub

In order that she hold too,
he sent out posts upright
between his oughts: oak
staves.

Her fill subsoil,
straw on good days
or cow-dung and lime.
Whatever.

He'd weave withes,
willow thoughts that he'd slither
wet meandering through her tough home hessian-here
used to hold ‘til dry.

A wall on which would be nought
but tedious historicity,
perhaps a house-
front facsimile

not sturdy though like lath and plaster
but crack-faults for soft lap
laughter moon
lather.

One night some slight unplanned
imprint of dedicated buttercup fossilled star
so hollow it fleshed a beholdened path mirroring
her sighs.

Well tired, so very tired
and all along alone he faltered
but high so unstrong he'd cry, use tears' salts
to lip'a steer by.

She tipped her tongue
and rimmed corona 'round
his stockaded clearing tumbling
to trust

because weak
because ancient
because distant because half-
asleep because ......................stranded

revealed dead kings crazed tombs catacombs
where solitude had brazened them.
Trenches which bore children.
Fears rodomontaded.

Some Thing. Gold.
At which he tore.
And more.
Thrust.

She it was who riddled plains
for fools, forswore the use of knife.
It is a dermisal device. I cannot find it in any book
my love. Help

me. Who clawed his shroud
to heaven threads, spun out a sodden horizon, sinking, fell from dread to ga/ether handfuls of stippled diamond drool stinking,
bled birth emblem, emblazoning leucorrhoeal trail

led and asked why are these trees like webs
in the lamp's light dear?
and this question
he followed

back
to roots
to slatted-keep. As strangers do
who have only modern moment-moated
clues to cling to.