Testimonies'

Wave on wave these houses yearn each for their testimonies' their sepulchres shovel—tick tocks In the moonlight, midnight, back to back In one of those; deepest unpicked locks— only a poet Houdini might be equipped for. Stretching, elongated sideways, like an old oak coffin lid—cradled with him inside it: he takes a peek outside. Beneath; the heavily backed maroon drapes dawn's light defuses, within his strained eyes. It flusters with those exposures, innermost: Those drowning, porous, expressions How sadly, longing his bloodshot eyes Dispel those spacious vacuous mysteries That comes eternally too him only. In black and white Just as alarmingly, damningly, annoyingly, as when a bats wing on a' Stars beam ashen gets nipped in the bud.