Tuesday, January 3, 2017


diaphanous elbows beneath my garden,
a shallow grave of epithets,
coiled like a holiday snake.
Repenting of your virtue
too late for seeing,
too soon for death, but not my own;
a chastisement of angels,
hurtling from below,
not one half so careless
as a filtered, cold reply
laid or tossed
repentantly beneath the cherry table.
Said it?  you said it,
the windows pealed antiphony like
frozen cakes of mud,
blue-nosed to the ears,
and groomed as close as houses

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