"Dear Emily, shadows pile upon the nouns whose undertaker
lisps, whose mire in mire, a loose leaf brooch, whose
wish was once a rope.
Whose month assembled caravans, whose cycle had no shape.
Whose sadder mirth had spoken of the slugs whose bodies bode.
Whose compliment was drawn in salt,
whose rainfall formed a field.
Whose cunning gifted alphabet went running with no foot.
Whose stunning dog did stumble near, whose cave did recollect.
Whose splinter in his sleeping car,
whose witch was once a fence.
Whose ditches borrowed cousinship,
whose pinafore did shed.
Whose trousers wed the marsh once more,
whose darkened tree lines wait.