Sacral structure.

 Lubomír Tomik

 Gregory Peck ate bread with chives and fell on the grass,
 the machine of small irregularities went into full swing,
  my Memsáhib smiled somewhere in the distance
 and on the gates of the sacral building it went out,
 pinned to a dagger,
 through and through,
my heart.

 Lights came on in the British Museum,
 my breath and Peck, on  back,
 whispering words:

 Lion mane, Lioness eyes,
 even though what I have done to you hurts the most,
 there is no excuse for
 what a bitch I was.

 When you ever go around,
 I'm here,
 my current address is:

 BOLESKINE.