A carnival, a flesh farewell.
Hiessens rising from the dead.
Wyman-Elvis! Calls our gurrel,
And counts the ash to where he bled:
At the first a crimson mist,
At the second sleeplessness.
At the third a broken tryst,
At the fourth, lwonesomeness.
Gawly in the sweethearts leaves.
Gawly in the soldier's tears.
As the Riddle river grieves:
Wyman-Elvis disappears...
Only in a scrid of flesh
Hooked upon the hart's-tongue fern,
And only by her own gooseflesh
Knows she somewhen he'll return.
