James Gibbons

A physiognomy is more sane, so the expurgates contend 
That reinstates the mirror. 
Soil suckles lame and pink masses
To the liminal injunctions of Cromwell,
poised by the oxidized bronze stairwell.
Twain could severe this debonair
A panacea of flowers (so the defeated, dark-faced Cavalry has said)
Was all that remained, in an abandoned monument,
Empty of sparkling carbon.
Is that the reek of anthropometry blood,
the cunning cruelty?