Here frowns your desiccated skin,
flesh-divorced, withered from small cues,
where once our wet reposed.
Here draws its owner to his own
sallowed remorse, a dull, cold home,
away to lone alone.
Here dries repeating drop by drop,
a fanciful and naive hope,
by nail, by hook, by hoop,
a female bitterly deposed.
In sail-less, sheet bound grief we've stalled,
despising all we chose.
Naught can you wash when stone is shored.
Friction tides attempts to crimped ghost-loam.
The time is spoiled past soil.
Where bleached your lace-proud presence roils
a story, linen-pocked and shed
to restless bed retombed.
Slick as a faceless oil this mark
shall spread as nothing may remove
holes caused by feckless loss.
There shall be darns where stitches tacked.
There shall be moths instead of vows
till all our tares be sewed.