On abandon, uncalled for but called forth.
The hydrangea of her crushed each year a little more into the attar of herself.
Pallid. Injured. Wild in ecstasy. A throat to come home to, tupelo.
Lemurs in parlors, inconsolable.
Parlors of burgundy and sleigh. Unseverable fear.
Case history: wistful, woke most every afternoon
In the green rooms of the Abandonarium.
Beautiful cage, asylum in.
Reckless urges to climb celestial trellises that may or may not have been there.
So few wild raspberries, they were countable and triaged out by hand.
Ten-thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Intimacy with others, sateen.
Extreme hyacinth as evidence.
Her single subject the idea that every single thing she loves
Will (perhaps tomorrow) die.
High editorial illusion of “control.” Early childhood: measles, scarlet fevers.
Cleopatra for most masquerades, gold sandals, broken home;
Unusual coalition of early deaths.
Early middle deaths as well. Believed, despite all evidence,
In afterlife, looked hopelessly for corroborating evidence of such.
Wisteria, extreme.
There was always the murmur, you remember, about going home.