Morticia in the Badlands

Even a lapsed perfidy chastises 

blood on the butterfly lodged

in twenty-year tawny port. 

Each roseate prayer bead 

absorbs mistrust. A rusted

foray into inlays of pastiche.

Is there wind enough to brush

astride these begging bowls?

Tell me how unknotting

works like a director or

a rector claiming to own a page 

taken from resurrection empathy.

Oh we'll all go out to meet her

when she comes 

under the noonday sun.

Whole cloth indices subsume the breath 

of catch-phrase monody a dentifrice

ahead of shoulders' wizened depth.