The whispering death wish

In your ear

   -Stolen from the devils mouth-

  Sat upon by archangels in tombs of limestone and 

green moss

   While they play the lyre and talk of Leonardo

and eat grapes and figs

  The tomb is locked and you stand outside

  testing the rusty padlock

 You fiddle and twitch

 with no real desire to bust it open

Green velvet and black hoods 

  You leave for work

On the 22 Fillmore