I have a love
for pure, 
sentimentally demure
reconnaissance.

The remit to see
after it,

to hear
in sounding 
of waves

a collusion, 
a solicitous infusion

gullible pans
the body 
of my faith.

As when eerie
and leery,
squirm insoluble

chide monstrous
prey to madness.

Faithless fodder 
upturns, 
in holy spells

of wack a mole 
hell.

And I can't stop it,
horror chases me down,
lose it lose it

Throw the damn board 
oh happy dagger,
misericord.

Then in a count
seven to ten
resumes again

as an irrepressible grace 
carrying
tarrying, betide

trailing edges 
for kisses 
and or misses,

sanguine or shred. 
Goes straight 
to my head.