Living in Death’s Linen


A hand full of five
candles, fingers of
flame wistful fistfuls
envious of what
lusts they contain. Held

up by a beast by
himself chained. Living
in Death’s linen, night
chastises them. Tells
of gilded petals,

coins wilted silver
when from his pants wealth
fell. That a serpent
serving him her tail
suspended until

hanged this man greed sells
as its reward’s f(r)amed
posture. Imposter
child of ill-fostered
touch, how foolish was


that pleasure’s pursuit!
Strung-up by his boots,
each foot loses ground
to tiptoe its rungs.
This ladder touch pulls

from under one soul
this gallows allows
thunder to swallow
in its loud gown of
cloud what knows no sound.

This clown, he holds for
jugglers another
crown. This pauper-king
whose prayer’s vow holds no
water now, but sinks

below bounds. Paper
in ink drowns itself.
Drinks of song one so
fond of being found
with no flesh on sings!