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She hisses -dead- ill -dead- cold 
a voice forgetful to me. A picturesque
I have. She hosts -dead- a lit swan
gliding on a midnight lake, outside visible
rippled dove, disturbance of cool pearl. 
She whispers -dead- in my ear and I wave
gravely to stars. She invents -dead- alone 
a liquid process, prompt dark fantasy, aught 
smooth future. In her wings, nested, rested 
I sing constant to her. My singular voice 
proper, trilling in likely enough -dead- well


Orlando


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