—Thass a funny title, Mr Bones.

—When down she saw her feet, sweet fish, on the threshold,

she considered her fair shoulders

and all them hundreds who have them, all

the more who to her mime thickened & maled

from the supple stage,

and seeing her feet, in a visit, side by side

paused on the sill of The Tomb, she shrank: ‘No.

They are not worthy,

fondled by many’ and rushed from The Crucified

back through her followers out of the city ho

across the suburbs, plucky

to dare my desert in her late daylight

of animals and sands. She fall prone.

Only wind whistled.

And forty-seven years with our caps on,

whom God has not visited.