- fsa -

O BLESS

this time of semination, lord,

this late and hungry tempo

when my joints are split to fleece,

when my turning thought whips and raps

like apples in the doe's mouth.

No Sundays then lord;

no bastings by the chicken or the dog.

Into this minor cavern song

I want to fall like dusted trifles

in the maid's bag home.

Come seek me, lord.

You're it.