Clots Of Reddish Clay (From, Poems Of Papa Due) Poem by Peter S. Quinn

Clots of reddish clay,
Mouthed in its vent;
Tender swooning play,
Decreasing and augment.
Morning coming back,
Beneath the milky ways;
Beaconing night black,
With the brighter days.

Clots of darkish society,
Driving its rim's heart;
Giving none opportunity,
Only the fulsome fart.
Black as a black can be,
Nothing in musky vessel;
Seeing not forests for a tree,
Critical eyes of a sessile.

Clots of wind driven theme,
Why has hope been robed?
What is there only beseem,
Nothing of thoughtways probed.
Morning coming back,
What will the others hold?
Empty and full of its lack,
Rediscovered any untold.