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?
Causes Renee Sigel Supports
The Grossman Burn Unit