Lullaby for Spicer Widow
Your husband has gone again, little bird
he is atypical. One less rebus to write that you
can’t take it. One less dark bitterness
gone. Count the letters in sheep and run, purple
and people and hands, through the agora at dawn.
He hovers, is a hummingbird, sucking plastic flora
and man to man is the cuckoo. Homo homoni
and you alone had time for me.
Read the letters in four out loud. I will always
believe. Your husband will always be belief. He
cheats the victor boys and nostril girls. The fear
of death confounds me. Victor his is at all melee.
“Pan sleeps!” The body Esperanto.