The fluted profile that greys in shadow
over the imaginary Ionic column,
who sighed at sin for grinning over
the rumble of cracked macadam,
he utterly changes every time
the light bulb flickers in the creepy breeze.
The roar of the glasspacks is the wet fiction
that has been prophesy
in your purple tense of every instant instant
that might never even happen,
not unless in a thinly minded white conrer
just behind the flowered pantry door.
You're in good hands, he said,
it's only the squeak of a mouse.