Down there among the charcoal
rocks rot hands that crave for
cradles. Black like bones of
backs, indeed; of whitening
sheep, of stables.

Think of the terror in eyes;
the fearful flag of winter.

Think of the coastal chapmen
with their sand cake bake sales
and their green been seaweed.

They sow the sorrow, troth;
soliloquize… loadstar loth.

Up here among the catcalled
locks long terms for grave en-
counters. Cold like china-clay,
indeed; like dolls, asleep and
sounders.

Recall the color of rice; the
grainy grunts of Pinter.

Recall the bridal sweet men
with their handshake up scales
and their top-down first lead.

They mow tomorrow, moth;
monologue… logic cloth.

Someone is shooting at the
theatrical tailor: wordplay
of perfect mouth and
perfect murder
(erode).

M.J.C.A. 11-28-2005