I folded that shirt for you
or a similar of the patterned array
that day
the day
you had your interview,
the exchange which billowed
you
away
from Me
into crackle pour multicolor majesties.
Bleeding, breathlesss
and white
on her skin now
on her frail and pinned purple slight
I'm hung out to sigh
of how I was
not the first on the line
re-gaurding love
or the fickly flees to pine
sinewed turniquet
on my fucking soul
freedom is in the form
of sin-now
of flesh-allow
me to iron-the-maiden's
shirt
of which you so long herrrrrr.
to wear daily,
in remembrance of your hanger.
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