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.

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