It all went limp —
the bags, the cobwebs, the rain.
even the chains — even the chains,
draped loose as curtains, brush the floor.
Even the gray stain on the pillow slipped
a bit before pausing, the hinge unhung the door.
And all the several fibrous hums —
the fridge, the gripe, the train, the pipe —
an octave lower than before.
What then must all this madness claim,
to comb distrust’s distressing mane,
flowed as garland, flowed as pain,
upon the head, along the vein.
Come want, come spleen and in between
such vaults in hollow echo run,
as moss to cypress drag and preen
to cut a flickered ravaged sun.