As you have choked, so now should you continue
and, bereft of gifts, fall silent.
So falls paradise, like black dresses when questions are pushed into minor keys,
their music the march of a hopeless parade.
What brushes with tender skin, what lackadaisical rain, and anxious lead in your throat
have you mired so in myopy, the levity of joy, in others?
in crease and fold, in turn of point, in parsing of language and sin,
the sea rolls in to defy the king.
in calamity, in partiality, and in the desire to be useful,
the commands to recede
bounce off of your pretty dress
and stick themselves in the pitying sand.