Threshold-throat

I hung out

my sore slough

in our wet garden

- a gore puddle under it

rapidly formed -

My threshold-throat tries

to utter your name

in a desperate silent gust.

Your glossy dark eyes

staring at me,

astonished at the same attempt.

And the gossamer-cloud

finally encases our silent house.

And it rains

on our sore gore

And it pours

on our scattered bones.