Six deaths

Long hair on a coarse towel survived five thousand revolutions plucked from a stranger in glass who placed it in your jewelry box. Next doors lovemaking. Sighs that were gifts wrapped in breath, now just a remnant in waxed whorls from the taper she blew out. Tones of voices who knew you that now want to know me keep-sake vultures with clichés Simon Elvin cards with chain shop sympathies. Night and Narnia lampposts visits to your wardrobe doors clothes where your limbs left a scent that hang in polythene to trap it. Turning left as I wake the five second husband birth till realization kills him and a stranger is born into hell. The sixth death is the strangers It will be real and beautiful consignment to a promise - half fulfilled.