The gap proceeds, diverging further on
The avenues which nevermore cohere.
Then, closer, ghosts who never souls had worn
Befriend the biting tongue of coals sincere
And make the meal with deprivation haunt
The avaricious glutton in his guilt.
The God-forsaken derelict would flaunt
To ghosts, unrivaled drifters on the hill,
His boundless cache, yet never flowed the tied
Where sang the driftwood canticles from home
Or stole refrains from apparitions’ brides,
To journey, hum, engross the salty foam.
These blooming trees of specters, fruit so bland,
Air swallowed, more, could empty stomach stand.