She should have a grave digger's name-
A not-unusual coincidence. A shovel pen
Flinging up the clods of her thoughts-
She buried herself, you see.
The witch-hair doll-face lover of death
Has been more than enough encouragement
Not to see myself in my personae-
While I can take the revealing line
Right below the modest decoupage,
My bared breast is possibly fake.
But still I think of her,
And that other singing sister-
Can one sing oneself to madness,
Call up a spell with words
That can not be undone-
And croon oneself to sleep with
Hell's own lullabye?
I'd rather uncast the curse
And sing to life what sleepers I could,
Even if they wake just to quiet me.
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