Chipped, Flecked and withering 

you gleam still, if in spite.

A forced union, and a most imperfect one at that

how flesh and bone still ebbs and flows

convulsing, were drawn so to the sour Bracco.

There’s no penance more prayer in our efforts 

No chance remains to be whole anew, 

Revel as you can.

 

Strung out and splayed,

it’s a bitter thing to see you still at last

a muddied stoop is no place for the finery of form.

Nor fitting passage to become scenery

 

Crimson drips down to the banks,

only to meet the pooling glow of lamps 

upon high, over which the spires rise.

We can only home the cool will lift 

from skin when we leave the shade.