Wasted               Wasted are the sounds
The sweeps        The lonesome
Hallway              Empty seat
Bare      Cold      Littered

There is more un-favored
Un-savored         Delight
In your eyes        I see

Grapes unwashed by water
Fume with need to taste
***        the wasteful father
Perfumes our reproductive
Waists

There is—Something—A mote
Sitting                In the kettle
But dead birds and assorted fish
Come forever
             Endless               Excessive

Wantonly needed

There are sticks               Perchance
Gouging from your        Urn
        
       Dead bones

In the marshes
        Roots
                   Pumped black with tar
        To my plexus
                   Ten dark hats

Spun-woven on your finger

        Tips


        And
                    We
                              Fell
Over the white
        Porcelain graphs
Of networks and tiles
        Powerful deeds
Harpooning the ocean
        Trying to make a hole

       Wide enough
       For a silhouette