Apocryphal

Larry steps right into her apocryphal embrace,
steeped in lattice and widow’s peaks and
all things necrophilia.

Larry steps into handmade tablecloths and
and Steiff Rose silver and the mystifying scent of honey
dust in on the back of her neck.

Here is the tuck of her chin, the slope
of her shoulder and the anvil at the base
of her throat, full of silverfish.

Larry steps in, with the miner’s helmet and
pick and cannot unearth her secret places
and the words she never said.