Mariana’s Trench

What was thought or sighed,
not spoken, by
Death, not to but, of a Maiden
on his first time visiting
the English countryside:

              Mind the gap?
                           Can’t get my mind off
                                        your gash;

A mutiny of apples
perspiring in a pit of wind
made gravely for a stream, falling in
following its course to a burial mound
menstruating tears.

              Raven locks
                           woven from ash,
                                        you’re stacked.

Diamonds diverted from treasuries appeared,
weighing a sad king’s worth not in years,
but loud moments. Each a gift thrown at his feet
by villagers groaning to be picked
to hang from his ears.

              Pompeiian me
                           no time, like you’ve got
                                        somethin’ to find,

Ringing, Death dove into the mine
calling to coalmen shouldering
shovelfuls of canaries
and Death hung them each
on his poverty line.

              Keep playin’ the
                           siren song calling me
                                        to come inside.