Another formulaic mystery.

Starting today I'd like to suggest we discontinue the use of
Cobwebs and butlers-for-hire.

Go ahead then and unplug the inclement weather machines
Sunken like glands along the drive.

Send back the bats and phony atmosphere,
The reasons we came and the clothes

In which we came here--

Pay the servants severance and the doctor standing by
Get rid of these piling up adaptations of
The Moonstone; Get rid of the poison, the ample clue

Feathered in a sigh.

Take this buried knife out of me, and resume calling me
by my real name, I'll go back to dressing as I did.
What we missed dissipates, how we dressed

What is led to, if recursive or imaginary.