To a certain cast of mind declarations of this being the last man for life admit interpretations through the kitchen entrance,
their audible blasts ruin the atmosphere if not quickly stifled and filed under Something Amusingly Off-Color Was Heard. To certain casts of mind
hope is admitted by declarations of being on the last man, if hope is this idle pastime deathwatch of perpetual delay.
Her attractive pain, I confess it, no one else is as interesting,
at the moment of writing her pale face smiles in my imagination,
in my fancy, the wringing of washcloths over a basin,
a lowered gas flame's mothy flicker blow.
Medivac Dracula thirsting for emergency, I'm just in time for her declining--more than half the sun has sunk into the pale green sea when a whale spouts spray into its falling face and turns the last light on her wall into a slide show of corpuscles jostling.
To a certain cast of mind
her bare throat is writhing fluorescence, her blanket full of snakes.