The Rite
Mac Giolla Bhride is gone
Not with a meteor shower
But a damp whimpering
Trip and elegant fall
Of a blossom white wrist.
With a shimmer and slip
she floats above the floor
the creaking wood’s rapture,
the shattered foundation
covers the dappled glass
cavorting with gravel.
The violinist packs
his tired love away,
the maid hushes each light.
The dove dressed in quaint cloth,
She reclines in the stairs
with her cheeks shimmering
of fresh dew, collapsing.