Murder Me

Morning call.  The starlings arrive

Uncountable to their range

Their plumage boasts green, plum-color,

Black inside the sun's irony

Groundsmen rake the gardens-askew

Old fox shakes a crease off his business-daily

Morphe.  The curtains move.  Susurrant.

Why won't the air relax them?

The postman arrives,

In each hand a dagger sheathed in white linen

They've sent me palm,

The Easter gladiolus, Belgian chocolate

A rabid, aching woman, her teeth wont to tear

Dissolves beneath a pale blue robe

Retainers take pains to collect her

She is gone to green city Oz

I remain.  Crystal turquoise.

Waxy lustres guard my lacquer-sheen

I, aporia, a plethora of word, confound prospectors'

Pick and dig, survey the disheveled forest

I felt their acid,

Pitting little singes as it reached hysteria

They could have swallowed me whole

And they would have