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 carcass 
of my faith.

As when eerie,]
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 count
from seven to ten
resumes again

as an irrepressible grace 
carrying
tarrying, betide

trailing edges 
for kisses 
and misses,

sanguine or shred. Goes
straight to my head.

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