billet

My body is a tent,

Fine to bivouac in

By campgrounds of desire,

In lattitudes of longing,

It is a short-term thing,

Just for temporary hire,

For the stitching is undoing

And the floor is prone to rending,

And the door lets water in-

Which is poor for those aspiring,

To a permanance beyond,

To a sturdier building.

Far past the forests dimming,

Liminal, receding,

Is a fainter chorus singing,

They are walking in the gloaming,

And the ranks are thinning, thinning.