Gertrude's Knee

On the towpath somehow the great diorama
all eyes rest on you
because of it, rest assured, firmly
in its gloried place freely apart from you,
and did not die when you died, and
now all these years hence
a patrician’s cloudless hymn
has collapsed into
some remnants of sample weather. 

Shoring up
while in the careful act of subverting,
brandishes a feather at a grand gallop across

Acrilan swards of ornamental grass murmuring the gentle name
of your tormentor.  Nothing rests after distance,
or satiates withal --
a quiet supper below deck, even as outside it
presses
parti-colored flowers hard to, and
from portals the bridge fretted with St. Elmo’s fire. 
Sallied forth with fresh thyme.  Curdled skies.