She looks slightly older today,
a pressed daisy.

Back home she killed the metalcraft
questions I intended to screw in

and shoved me into the limo
instead. Trickery?

Or perhaps the fog that swooped
down on the city like risky cotton

stirred in her a rare fit
of earnest resolve?

It is late now and the typesetters
have laid the sticks

to mimic the warbled wishes of
a song thrush.

We wait for burgers and a big finish
under the J.G. Melon sign.

Thief. You steal into the supple night
To pick and plunder. Shadows split,
Perhaps you deal in your own light.
Rune or sortilege? That is it!

I dream. Must be, for now the bland,
Prostrated body commands no vigil,
Allows the treacherous, craven hand
To rip a heart out by dark sigil.

Mine! Pitted, jet like eyes of raven
Is now this chest that aches, so dry.
She has the beat with her, my fair maiden.
I let her in to live. Now I die.

Take a bite, ’tis alright. We have boar, we have mutton, and goose.
Make it big with a swig of this velvety gentleman’s wine.
Be remiss (pass the cheese). The world does not care; that’s a ruse.
Please, forget, never fret. Want no more’n let go. On to dine!
Oh, yes. Miss Fortuna’s banquet will treat you just fine.