given the situation, instructions follow

corrupt, and pruning wonder with disfiguring hands, this pinching.

paroxysms strangling tender cervixes, the
secluded byways of hope, however slim, and

here fertile things possess no promise.
this is a graceless, wide bed of rage.
and with smeared, lipstick-oiled eyes,

know: these kisses are bald blinking.

sheathes open closing, quickly over brown rounds of self pity,
sheathes open closing.  open closing over turned ground, at the turned cosmos

of a robin mid-flight.  this one, the one with clipped wings clipped speech. 
clipped years of gash gardens that, unflossed to your fang and dull-knifed, 

impractical hook, he would not visit.

so:  rest.  in nightshine and upon that spot bleached pillow,

seal the doors seal the windows, and against unchanging ahead,  and
despite fixed behind, fall asleep to invented canticles.  dream.