They call him the velour phantom.
He barks dirges in an empty harbor
at twilight, dirges that reach no ears
but his own and the dried cherubs
skimming the breeze.
His madness is hinged to a principle,
one that’s indiscernible
to even the most capable mind.
Beetles nest in his hindquarters.
He has perpetual rickets.
A thicket full of cancelled stamps
occupies the space
where his lungs should be.
Nothing about him is genuine.
He chews Grace with burnt teeth
and spits out bellyaches.