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"Dear Emily, shadows pile upon
the nouns whose undertaker

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lisps, whose mire in mire,
a loose leaf brooch, whose

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wish was once a rope.

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Whose month assembled caravans,
whose cycle had no shape.

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Whose sadder mirth had spoken
of the slugs whose bodies bode.

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Whose compliment
was drawn in salt,

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whose rainfall formed a field.

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Whose cunning gifted alphabet
went running with no foot.

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Whose stunning dog did stumble
near, whose cave did recollect.

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Whose splinter in
his sleeping car,

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whose witch was once a fence.

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Whose ditches
borrowed cousinship,

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whose pinafore did shed.

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Whose trousers wed
the marsh once more,

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whose darkened tree lines wait.

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