less finished than a roughly painted slur
   of images once solid, seething through
     the wide-spread plumes of sloppy noon, it stays
       unstopped within its own barky surge
         and sways like multi-handed drunk Pierrot
           its muscular contracting boughs blur
             the clear eyes of undiscovered blue
               and try to blind them with the squeaking rays -
                 but all in vain, for those just blink and dodge
                   and watch them crash and start again to grow:
                   it heaves and pants, all covered with the foam
                 of velvet clusters, like a wounded beast’s
               distorted vision, and this velvet is
             so dense and avid that the sky above
           seems much more distant than it wants to be:
         and when it rises, it begins to roam
       along the walls of badly shattered mists
     soaked in illusions, which it cannot ease,
   and hides a purple-winged dormant dove
under the crust of wooden misery