invites in Cavendish turn, abandoned by all,
abandoned forthwith, abandoned elsewhere yet insistence recoils lest affinity whispers unscrupulous fear with man’s tirade in snow,
but insistence that’s something without.
Studied regard her slick fedora dancing at nothing left seen, or something once lost in a dream
Danger of tarantella hovers between Mrs. Didn’t and husband – lonely and crazed, and at night this charade of a saddened world sings from a flowery grave.
Yet each evening at midnight their music grows soft and together they’re at last, in mythical beauty her hair floats golden as dawn arises over the trees.
Her slightened naivety, his equal philosophy, anyone might be deceased while alive in the sophomore wood, thus called as it were.