Severe as a specter's ghost was—
his face, or else another autoimmune
disorder, the vaporous vaporous
hunger to just condense around.
The velvet cart's track that
leads not where one dead wants
but just back in on itself. The beauty
stretch of long, haute, dead nose;
hair thats discouraged and flat
over said dead face. The sweat
-shirt that fulfilled him not
in life or still in death does.
Worst hill in death. Doves
mockingly flit over it.
