Slop the hog

A propeller’s hope of binded light
Like a whisper between nuns,
murmuration of the swallows,
a collection of vespers
walks out of the room.
There’s no candy on the shelves anymore
and the bins full of tangy metallic screws
are just enough to wet the tongue.
I’m lapsing now, just like the last time,
one last lilt and then.
And then you’re absolutely full of the bulk,
a spool of heavy chain, a slaughtered pig,
keening.
keening.