Don’t imagine flames dancing warmly;
nor head nor tail of it.
And beautiful is a telescope, soft lensed,
determined not to mention a murderous inception.
The forensics are back.
It’s blood—always was.
A spectrometically incontestable match.
Maybe this masked, velvet few inches
of finch was too refined to pull the trigger,
but it knows who did;
was there up to its bowels
in blood, accessorising the fact,
like the spattered brooch found pinned to the breast
of the Ripper’s corpse,
sopping it up.
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