In the chime choke Alms house a grey lantern flickers moths dye the seamstress Coventry blue. Long ago her lover coaled blossom and hurled it in the river so she knew he was thinking of her. Now age has wickered her skin to red dogwoods stretching skyward, painted in skeins of osier. She drifts away like coal barges controlled by doors of lock and screw surging to the nectar breast. Nights stone iris reflects her and a rainbow of dragonflies hemmed her whispers in polyester. Nobody came for her belongings she had outlived them all her grave faces the still wheel.