Flancia Flinchman

Flancia Flinchman was with her ancestors

starting to pour the contents

of her brightly shining feathers

into the summer-time of her life

honing in choruses

waiting to favour the graces.


And as she tied the cord

tighter around the rim

of her velvet bride's bag

holidays sane and sensual

came into the vein.


Post strike,

but no-one dared lay down

the heaviness of the plover's tread.


She saw into places which

darkly safe

could nor-westerly be sheened

by the bright breeze

shifted and spilling the races

from mid-ocean wave.


Ordinarily the trumpet blew

to give notice of the time for rising

yet without sound

only movement could wrestle signs

from the patient frozenness.


Flancia Flinchman came into each room

of her father's house

son et lumière

excreting from the sky

hoping to unload heaven's breath

trying to maintain

local pieces of roasted pork.


Salad days are forever splendid.

Streaking between the bone

cleft in stone

the striking lance shafts

sharp into the place



And she looked into the glass jar

dark with starlit night

and softened the treasuries

of peace-making rodents

crafting their lairs

sorely missing the pleasures of daylight

crumbling gruff truffles

from the burrowed entrance

to the underworld.


And Flancia Flinchman came

and divested all her jewelry

and flames expired in the process

of becoming–

rake's progress.

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