7
Her breath catches. I am white heat and ashes.
"I tore it outta the flesh of the world."
I am thundering to the annexes,
mad like a king, but only a herald.
My house is broken, cursed and divided.
My lands are taxed, levied and barren.
I stand in the dancehall, a dimeshow crier:
"Visions of hell and glimmers of heaven!"
Not thrifty, not cunning, not friendly, not well.
Not nice to the in-laws on family picnics.
Promising all that a lie can foretell:
snake-oil massage, and vinegar vinic.
Recanted tropes of temperance forbidden,
as my seeking hand lies half forgiven.