 |
 |
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 %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%