THE WAY:

And the sky is gushing
purple; and you want it
all to go your way

And you want the lever of
wood to romp in with the
seasons.
but nothing will make
the snow near
under the window
pane wince for
an evening cigarettte.

And the cars are coughing
up the azure; and nothing
seems to come your way.
Only the eastern
rinse of the shallowless.
flow of eastern suppers
is there to get you out
of the way of the way.

And you want the banjobox
of the evening never to fritter
away.
If only the moles could
moult into the museum ink rumblings
of  many pious colours, Ruination.
need never block your way.