Topiary

Like a candle nervously aware of its melting

I hawked up death from my throat

Who really know how to dies

Broke winged, flutt’ring half-circles in
The dirt
Spraying furrows in earth’s brow
Confused

Or listening to music that turns its listeners to stone

Or a cat turning round to mark a hollow for sleep

And of whom there’s no, no consorting with

You’re a marked man, no I’m

A bit wide of the kram, ma’am

I can’t stand it, I can’t
Stand

I command

the ivy to cover it over

(sob)
‘Til daybreak announce mourning to me
I will not mourn

P.S. I came back as a shrubbery

I led a life there suitable to my temper

Copying music at so much per page