The prosthetic imagination

Of death

To sing breaking
    beyond a thing
Before she came, a hymn
    was small enough
Everyone owns a hymn,
    where ways and states and mysteries hold
        notoriety
Anywhere else an ear is
    more celestial
Someone adjusts nature and progress,
    where gentians and whole
        and bills sob secrecy
This secrecy bears no relation to
    lover, rose, grave, man
She likes consummate graves
But she would rather be sagacious