Her peccadillo always was to soften
(arches of flamingos in the hall),
buttering carpenters a brioche
in a soothing monotone
whose chemistry would vilify
extremes of umbrage. Catseye
leaping into the near-hearted
enclave, a nymph triumvirate
hectoring at the old rigidities
as a swing of gender, stretched
with the humanity of temperature.
A yam's follicle, a soda sponge.
Marriage is a mantra, stirring
interstitial ore, rinsed, wrung
by happenstance and satin
countenance. Conquering malaise
they stealthily astonish the wretched
through a humidity of jugular
in fulminant parousia:
your boat-neck signifies a launch.