The killer was a manifestation viewed from a mile up –
The pooling around the particular petal,
And the city a frost-burned pasque flower,
A silver locket with fine filigree and flagellum,
And the pores of pale skin just in its shadow.
He has his hands around her neck now,
He has his designs and Georgia on his mind,
Sweet murderer, with a pure interest
In ending life processes before they end
Themselves, which is called a natural death.
Perfect object, idea of a rectangle or parallel
Parasols strolling down a post-apocalyptic
Dance hall in the delicate rain scented with cement.
Couple in pastel love, beware the killer,
He wears white gloves, he chugs, as he is fat
Off the mystery we pretend is around the corner.