The inhumane hour descends;

argumentative in silent regency, devilish in smooth arcs
of tourmaline, plastering far like a pure weep
with space enough to seduce, it heaps a body
of myths tasting your lips with a muzzled army,

paramount, waiting in strength, listing muscles archaic
with witless blinks, or a pickled amputee, sound-swabbed
and time taut.
Alone, a breath feeds like an angler, scoring fresh from muted waters,
spirited away
and the room beckons.