Her eyelids the world heavy and lost, her womb
a hole, a drifting husk - the winter of her wounds. Her blood
a beginning passed as innocent fire dirty
as her mother’s dust her father’s flooded organs.
Her worry a crime the fraudulent songs of glass and spires
the abject need for miracles.
Aubade for a Dead Man
Birthed from black, a rip of sky,
a bloody thigh and a scar of a man.
Year on year he raped himself invisible,
all his days the jizz of an afterthought.
The mist of conscience left with him as the sun turned;
words robust as smoke in the diary of his solitude.
From the edge of the autopsy I saw his heart a blackberry
rippling purple the black dough of his lungs.
This morning an anniversary of sunken blush
anchoring the ribs of his remoteness.
Into Any Morning
In the loud gloom lost these windy graveclothes fly
a little in the light deadly.
They hang soft
brief wedding gowns
lace wounds wrong with winter.
The wind’s rub clings inward:
a slow funeral. The haunt
of skin defeated.
Sun rises amber upon all the bones - some bright-edged,
some black stumps grieving.
Day, dust-druggedand nothingness enough.