abit off the string
while a bridle lay idle
in the corn-fell’d awns
this from a burgher
the furthest borough too near
a knot-maid’s compeer
and a bizarre hare
or clean bird from Chiapor
illegibly more
a sigh fore a bier
fore a bitter crone that’s morn
overfed faintly
far in the hedges
wild grasses a burnt rose
a silk-maid’s laughter
moor’d at thereafter
rather as a wool-card’d spool
anneal’d & utmost
an aul-size for caps
one fool sent for glazier tools
this dew on the sett
ayaladn 
It is very pleasing when your poems get drawn out longer, for me at least. I get so intrigued by who you dismantle and repurose the language most times. What id ‘Chiapor’? I couldn’t find it anywhere in either my wornout Diction or thesauorosus.>KB
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Truly, Sirrah, but a seedy place, too small a map;
you hike there through Kush, quietly, in a monsoon; and you’ll
be there by noon…otherwise we’ll be gone
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wh=how
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Yes, yes…you do stir pudding
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