Tracing days, Lost, like Next of Kin

Along an eloquent medieval hemline,

Clichéd canticles chime Intransitive distances 

Shaping a tentative blend of humour and Black Death.

Cast, off the backbones of spinsters, convinced Spells

Are word-processed by the gaunt shoe Salesman of Bad-Breath,

Generosity dies between cold sheets; shirt-and- limbless in skins

Wrapped of cold water pooled at his feet: Hush!

One might believe She remains; collecting roses and goose downe.

 Hope gathers fluff as last year’s fern-leaves

Feed the bitter smoke of blue.

A last-chance breath of air beyond dreary grief

In the stillness of a windless world.

Down the breeze the sky falls apart

Dropping real stars into laps of sleeping wives

Nausea rises like an art movement, rolling with the sea

Across anonymous witchery

And in disgust their men leave dressed as God;

silent and intolerant of such skullduggery

Still, caviling the heart renders implacable fat magic

encircling Cardinals blessed in the last line of any ordinary life;

where death settles decay beneath the rain

into an exuberance of gritty Argument:

and the Untying of verbal corsets

in need of ironing out…

Though should such rounded compulsions

 beg a reading of compassionate silences

 in threading the skeptic ray of rope: Are you

and I diluted to a coma-Aftermind;

moved ever so By the way Skin wears her

…and someone else’s Hope?

Yet, should the kitchen dispense with the nightmare,

dishing to the dead Tut-tut heart cakes of the Ungrieving;

        Who is left to munch on her Arval Bread?