They are a concert of glass and their bodies are shelves;

filaments of wax coating daffodils, they stand leaning on their staff

with an ice age that leaks to your nervous.

They do not forgive with flinch, they do not offer rapport with fear,

they eat youth with beauty and with glance as a full head of hair.

They stand in your gut with their stoic, and roost with Lenore,

they do not knock, they do not ask but they invite your vice;

that gulp in glass or nicotine or pills or food or sex or ....

Anything that banishes

the cool hand that rocks the cradle.