I tore open the letter I wrote you,
again - going through ruined envelopes
and a waste of stamps, to read the words through
- since I shan't get them back, I don't suppose,
all let fall by chance.
Funny words like "shan't" that you can't really use,
like Gregorian Chant in Victorian mode
- on stilts like harlequins,
lovely they glowed,
mischief they played
and pictures they were,
in their ongoing bygone pagaent parade.
They giantly stepped and gingerly strode,
with pantomine horses brought up
in the rear, rearing like acrobats
clumsily made, with seamy and capering
conjoined suits for gear - each frisky
and riskily gamboling, in parody
of an old army drill.
Laid to rest now, but soft. No use. The ink
has run off with the pen, vamoose. The age
paper writing recorded is gone. Dead language
found new forms to kill, and has taken them on.
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