Because of your own natural sense of death,
death's stench in the fur, in the follicles, sweat glands,

 

These X rays prove what we probably knew, my lady,
my love. Namely, the heart is a muscle for pumping blood,

All night, a presence outside in the gardens and grounds,
dravm to the house by the stench of a secret.

 

The old guitar with its broken neck, bowled over
by the cat, we said. Six tangled strings,