Rappahannock Succor

Matthew Moore

I read a book’s living will psychologize the generals’ lives.
My life, spare of its professional soldier, lay buck naked
of a cool morning, sheeted on top, both feet moisturized,
writing out my just endowment. A boon to my solitude
wounds your solitude. My right elationary eye deracinates
a revisionist page, to fill it with wandered thread-count.

A sanctuary yards rest, walled to brim
vignerons on step ladders.
Lips over the vines, dressing this burn
calamity; callow expanse.

A hand raised when you hear lightning resemble sound.
A hand raised when you hear blue skullcap lighten skin.
Flown, any desire wrecks. Ills calm songs. A sacring bell
asunder rose the radiator its expressionist of a texture
exigent into valley’s vision settling blown unside, cools
intravenous, hammers down all the wanton trajectories.

Was this a massacre, and I knew
that, as pre-languages lost,
Lambert Strether calls me,
Live all you can, and hanged up a
phone with his glovéd hand.
The ships sail for a clement one.

I only ever calm down in a hotel room
located or anon. On both side
of its milkwood tapestry, a backswept
bison compels the iris bodkin;
room, with it this bun, service.
H. M. S. Long and Short of the Quell,
hymn, my sanctuary, what a container.
Tonight you live forever, if you
churn out, a new version. Explicitness
runneth off, somebody killed crossing.
The ships sail for a clement one.
The oblige creates a brittle attention.