The panels are of dog's skin same as those webs I weaved when I knew spirits didn't age by living but with just the senile years
Those panels a homely surface I danced upon, done little tantrums on without salt;
Nature's grievous sprout flaking in between the lead's feet _ the bone I still drift with
Amiss with the balance things take around the burlesque prodigy I posset:
Parades of pairs in the middle of february,
Daughters with no loose ended cradle to repair with musings found in the pit of the milking beer.
In the vicinity everything is onset with a match; a compensation aquiposing the twisted footing
Everything is a well observed hypothesis
The conclusions bestowed like dominoes on the backing steps of everything.
In the great order of things death wears the stockings of saints as garlands;
The golden detritus clatter, the cling a served plate of mewling martyrdom granted for whom who ails beneath the flaxen haired, god annointed patch of eye.
Blind in a kaftan of elm root, the balm of a peach kernel, the rose petal
You are still being lowered_
Never to see a green thing no more, never to curse the weather for forgetting the linens and knits on the line cloth
Death will make you a forgotten stone in a gouged vermin's dirt track
Death will come and it won't fatten those horrow barrels with the corn loads,
It won't slip you a poodle named "Heaven" for trustee.
Order is a forged decorum bound to fail under the black veil's gaze that leaves no bears for sentiment oiled guerdons
Death has no slow proceedings informing leave from the darling's heart, her lover's starry bedding, the sewing box
A contoured foot it leaves a print among livings yet bolster no shoelace in the sole's suitcase gist, time, days filled.
Balance retreats its favored cusps from that realm
Laws of senses don't even work a chiromancer's veteran fingertips spell turning the veers of the blanched wrinkles into prominence.
You have no hand in the umbra reef of reefs chirping unknown summers on end:
Noons that burned for hearing the wish of corsets wanting to be sun-kissed,
Rains that drowned oceans in their waters for desiring a bidet for your ankles, a sweet lip for the fickle salt chuck stuck on your flat footing.
The scales are at loss, are a half eaten fragment of a biscuit already chapped with crippled tusks
And there is no treasure in death no face felt to know yourself again in that memorandum hunting humanity like a reminder's echo
God's leftover bouquet,
Life's constant memo abiding absolute
The dark we keep guessing to be the sound of peace and softly lullabied quiet
Though we ache from it,
We desert the living and we hate that land that has no return ticket worse again