Canned up as by fly traps,
stale air packed up like boxed homes,
that we live in for long months after,
like clean bed sheets next to unmade beds.
i'd rather be packed in ash like pompeii,
preserved for propriety, then fail,
i'd lick my lips, bide my time,
put my candles, fold my sails,
wait for the banshee sound to suck strong as a gail,
pull out the pop up books little arrows,
so that action sweet action can prevail.