Joan Crawford (poem)

Though the bison have dissolved,
there is, Albatross,
a forest on the moon
called Sempiternity.
A very mirrored-by-chessboards
hunchback slinking spectral
through the keyhole.
The spiders have rained on the crossroads.
They slumber muttering:
"In the eye-of-Horus klieg lights
the pariah slunk spectral
through the keyhole."

There are rooks rocketing into
the abyss. All are dead.
Don't cry, my albino one;
we probably already were of
a moribund epoch
when my gas-jet forget-me-nots
bloomed in the grooves
and slumbered muttering:
"If a swan's neck scimitars
the hair of a cigarette--
a myriad paths to the same
seashell closet in which...
if the pipestem's tunnel
caves in, there will be, Albatross,
a forest on the moon
called Sempiternity,
a very mirrored-by-chessboards
hunchback slinking spectral
through the keyhole."
Don't cry, my albino one.
We probably already were of
moribund epoch when
your thighs were scrimshawed by
the talons of a harpy eagle.
All are dead.