Ribbon and the Rye

Often, before, the gentle bumping of the door

Dishes died in patience, ash left fossils on the floor

Yellow paper curling back

The measured spaces shaded black.

For gentle passing and gifts that age

For swollen belly bloats of rage

For every split between the times

For verses haunting , shattered rhymes

Always there to quell the shame

Malted barley, barstool fame

Shredded organs, sweet with rot

Frequent covenants, broken knots

One to pause and one to paint

One to color dull and faint

One for roadkill, two for rust - three for things that pain

One or two for silt and loam - the weeping motions of the rain.

A tablespoon for fettered lust  

A half a measure swell and bust

A teeny tiny bit and brim

Salted pillars skyscraped rims

All for maybe, perhaps, then

All for paper dolls of painted men

All for some, and one for the brawl

All for the writing on the bathroom wall

In the meadows, in the mire

Sleep catches wind, catches fire

Finds itself caught in patience lost

Rigor mortis through the moss

For never was there nothing sought

In face and fury, tried and taught

For never ever did she ask

What lay there suspended in the flask.