In the lofty shadows
where whispers curl
around the serrated edges of night
we speak, murmuring echoes
from the beak of the midnight confidant,
secrets never said by names untold.

"What wisdom do box springs hold?" inquired a nameless prosy. Idle clocks wink conspiratorial, shuttered windows shiver in coy ulterior folds.

This hallowed trellis, our czar beneath
watches stringless marionettes
grasping with ardent patience for spoken Parchments:
Whistle secrets ringing in curved metal tongues...