Rinse a Suture

Sorrow’s music: a mystic grace; and fallin’—her soul; and
Crawlin’—her mind; and oaken beads—the blood of wounds;
And inward cries—a neighbor’s ghosts; and morning
Gin—the deepest grief; and sober faith—the sharpest sword.

Rinse a suture; and wax the gravel—a grave is walking; and
Sometimes alone—a crowded room; and sometimes proud—
The softest death; and ghosts—my mind; and pain—our crown;
And grip a fleece; and shutter love; and stitch a sore; and

Puncture wounds. Indeed, afflict a nightmare: kill a vision; for
Struck and stunted—a soul has dropped; and what the grief—a
Heavy hell; and what the cloud—the darkest shield; and desert
Aches—a leisure death; and so human—and so dead; and such
Spirit—a boundary; and perch a heart—my nearest prayer; and
Coach a wound—fully gray; and fall the sword—an eagle’s cry.