Flannel lined with wool remorse

Bore his chest, worn and coarse

The beryl’s greens

Shed reds of steel

Forced the whispers to his head, and in the night

He hears his eyes

Lyrical; prophesize;

Autumn waves of petrichor

Ferried pleats of grave divorce

Soot and gneiss with gray device, he waives

His hand in fee of life

The dream has come, the dream is done—

Wear thy feat; fear thy son!

His knuckles bleed, but he has won!

This turbid war, the sun hangs low

Disturb’ed one: the glass he sews

Falls like leaves off wintry trees and shatters on concrete would time just

—freeze

Framed porcelain, a splash of wine

Cherry coke and grapes designed for minute suds

Which effervesce in whitewashed tubs

And Sunday studs the river runs if

Grace becomes the chosen gun

Bang! She shouts, Run you little maniacs

Your fingers through your hair and sift the silt for gold

But she is consumed—

Ambitious giants who shake frostbitten lands

Uproot the flowers

Sow the weeds

Wear silken suits, purple hearts

Impalas cloaked in jaguar parts

High-legged stools:

The four-legged chairs for

Two-legged fools

Vertiginous tills of greenback prayers

Toppled (what would you like to wear?)

Dust cracked off his shouldered woe

A suit of kings from dreams ago

He ties red masks

Etched with green

Flannel coats the crossed remains:

And mourns the waves of amber grain