Cloudy he didn’t deign to fetch
blazoned tunics from the trunk
beside the bed. (It’s always at this
zilching hour that the rubric sun elects
to drop its shadow hearth.) The sirens
aced mistaking when they trained me
in the dark and your siphoned ability
bespoke you, wilting seizures in late
woods of bizarre significance, an elicit
moss surging apathy. You were my
last hollyhock before influencing
death, employing infamy in a hued
story which concerned only you.