Mustard.

Well sure, I think I know what that's about.

 It always seems to begin with the dull thud.

 Sometimes it's a timing problem. 

Then I taste blood in the back of my throat.

 Revolving chairs often stand in way of 

memory retrieval (this is Gus's Dad speaking).

 Now it begins in earnest:

 Needlepoint at dawn. 

Trendy slacks worn to distract from 'weeping point'.

 Fitful sighs. Target of bread.

 Don't bail.

 A real ghost-apparel bongrel show. 

Wendy's crew is on top, now.

 Carlos and Jerry have transferred 

the remaining crates to Fenwick.

 We'll be setting up the 'fix-point' 

in closed earth segments. 

They are fragile.

 Do not cough as one.

 The cups are secure to meet any demand. 

Boxed in stabile isolates, re-zoned 

for inhalation of grief tablets.

 Waking juice. 

A Mormon penitant will let 

some of us know that you have 'bailed'. 

It was found as you opened up. 

Shred as you will, we seek no delight. 

The face has moved as if to keep up with the mud. 

Now it smokes. And folds socks.

 And sucks fields.

 And finally (you guessed it): seals folks. 

Permanently. 

Without hope.

 Airless. 

Detroit.

 Mustard.