All Souls

A carnival, a flesh farewell.

Hiessens rising from the, from the dead.

Wyman-Elvis! Calls our gurrel,

And counts the ash to where, to where he bled:

At the first a crimson mist,

At the second sleeplessness.

At the third a broken tryst,

At the fourth a lwonesomeness.

Gawly the sweethearts leaves.

The soldier's tears.

The Riddle river grieves:

Wyman-Elvis disappears...

Only in a scrid of flesh

Hooked upon the hart's-tongue fern.

Only by her own gooseflesh

Knows she somewhen he'll return.