Though, if you ask her name, she says Elise,
Being plain Elizabeth, e'en let it pass,
And own that, if her aspirates take their ease,
She ever makes a point, in washing glass,
Handling the engine, turning taps for tots,
And countering change, and scorning what men say,
Of posing as a dove among the pots,
Nor often gives her dignity away.
Her head's a work of art, and, if her eyes
Be tired and ignorant, she has a waist;
Cheaply the Mode she shadows; and she tries
From penny novels to amend her taste;
And, having mopped the zinc for certain years,
And faced the gas, she fades and disappears.

let startle inlight, if not so lifted
in peregrination, a lavish seeing.

two eyes are worlds in
tippling axis.

taking deaths,  a wreath would a candle,
a prayer would a body thumbed down
to wisdom our backbones break.

to see    death    like a rush of flowers.
great the sight of such illumination.

swiftly going to god's dark behemoth,
  metaphysics of bone clenched—
   darkling like obsidian

a complexing fault of road
     as the same vein of Earth aspirates
       the wind — whose exigent fire
  cleaned her bones back to
     pulchritude: her face a diamond
     in the rough — never to speak
  yet to clamber with summarization,
    realness and revelations of roses.

Grains of sand the Wind has buried,
Dunes of voices, no noises carried
Slamming doors and lapping shores

Hinged on Exhale

Whipping, Whooping, bows not drooping
“Who”, not “what”, “How” not “now”
Aspirates stifling