Potter's Field Poem by Prageeta Sharma

Some formula for sacred council as not to weep
into the meadow grass. And a man that frequents
open fields to scale for insects or the representation
of mediumistic reigns will be filled with murmurs
darker than narcolepsy. But the soft lightweight
muslin keeps everyone clean from weakness.
Airy wire frames the printed word and the noose
wraps the presents ever so quietly that rugs need
to be scrubbed for awkward limbs to shell resistance.
By way of an interference, holding firmly the lusterware,
the lure jerked me with a madcap head, and the menfolk
left neatly with hypothetical nectar.