Hard to give up on sarcophagus
Comfort replenishes comforter
Like lampshade castrates light
Sharpening the tippie-top of lonesome
To puncture, focus first
The hooded identity of space mother
And then hunting the father
With short jabs
From a stubby shank
Never reaching the conversation
Taking place over carded muskets
At the big table
Where corn is wasted
And patience is restored with whip
