It was like a movable hazed bargain;
me an' the harbor; all was in silence,
wasn't asking but a crossed valence,
a phrase she spelled thrice-and again.
An epistle of undefiled-warm advice,
as there stood, hazed double-dyed,
the spirits of sodding souls who died,
a dark traveler asked for bride price.
In air he thumped, rhythmic like waves;
he asked for an archetypal death toll;
in my town women wore a black stole,
and 'lost in sea' abide in void graves;
Charon hummed, as our ship entered,
in this utopian harbor where borders,
versed in oddities of rhymed folders;
a wake-waters trail was off-centered.
He stood on the moors and I knew;
winds whipped ropes upon head-mast,
as we drew the guns; he lifted fast;
my shots echoed, birth-law to ensue.
I felt the slug, and he wavered across,
ready-a-ghost, on the moors he stood;
Tasted blood but I lifted up, I should,
red drops dropping on grass and moss.
Standing, I rolled a Les-Durham smoke,
children were watching me round-eyed;
on April, perhaps, someone else died,
cause bells rang, and craws croaked.
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