All Souls

A carnival, a flesh farewell
Hiessens rising from the, from the dead
"Wyman-Elvis," calls our gurrel
And counts the ash to where, to where he bled
One, two, three, four
Five, six, seven, eight
At the first, a crimson mist
At the second, sleeplessness
At the third, a broken tryst
At the fourth, a lwonesomeness
Gawly, the sweethearts leaves
The soldier's tears
The Riddle river grieves
Wyman-Elvis disappears
Only in a scrid of flesh
Hooked upon the hart's-tongue fern
Only by her own gooseflesh
Knows she somewhen he'll return