Death Of The Sitcom: An Abjuration
Never shall I argue with hinges
forgetting the lurid anatomy of Daybreak
under flannel
nor gather silhouettes at eventide
sewn among tempestuous, vernal plaits
Where fields of dross are beaten
I cast no searching eye
no shadows in the blackening paddock
no airs to vaunt my weightless claim
Beneath lambent waters
my rhythm is coiled
unguided by this cryptic trance of Living
I dance upon the wet stones
To beg the wind its insuperable mercies
baiting starlit peaks
with rubicund idylls
hermitic sang froid
to raze their hoary-crested diadems
Alas, where faint beams rattle
The proscenium waves tantrically
Sped on to delirium
by the click of a silvern hasp
a bare foot
through tall-flowered esplanades
paler than gravity.