Peter Longofono
We'd prevented a ghost from explaining.
Lullabies, tender. Hoodwinks, loverly.
Whiling hours yet to take names
whose functionaries pray sister
and ornate tracts
and falcon.
Some time ago, some time ago.

April mornings arched
Beethovenly on the pigeon-
sill, libraries spilt lawn arcana.
We learnéd clamberers
of the globe still felt sleepy,
spectacular lilysport.

Carthage still burned, obliquely, one evening
per annum, recessed vaults stilled continuo.

We were housecarls and we owned
means by which the Scholar's
pure heart may divine egress.

Just (Ghost fed smut to a candle) because!

Why, what's more material
than the shredded dogvane
whipped to quietude,
what unremembered
feral tugging rears
for the deadwife?

Nevertheless there's sound!
We of—yes—opinions.
The dear, net-laden Moon.
Damp bewilderment.
We had leave. We took it.