This morning I gave up bewilderment.
Took new snow in bare hands, wiped clean.
Skyward gazing, seeing the brown of morning eyes.
It has been four hundred years.
Since in the histrionic ante meridiem
You, compunctious , penitent, shame faced
Sold me the snake oil
that gave salve for the emboldened heart
acclimatized my expectation
resurgence of disquiet
I held my heart in my hand and ate of it
(creature in a desert, naked, bestial)
One can’t help but remember, though
On a sweet January day
that concave part
beside the basket of ribs–the alabaster crevasse
(You showed it me)
perhaps where you kept your wishes and desires
Your ecstatic posturing, feral
your violence and ignominy,
the sound of your voice in deep midnights.
Or better yet, the names and numbers of the snowflakes that would fall
the day you walked away.
It’s all so dramatic, she said.
The Whole lot.
Something comes of nothing and then, bother, bother
the whole place erupts in glamour. Clamour
erupts in the sunshine, the moonshine, the deep seated egress
-the bible of those two.
Oh, those volumes spoken in glances were so very tiresome
for two as timid as trees, windless.
It’s all so ecstatic, she said
The sole shot
Something comes of nothing and then, Farther, farther
The whole grace disrupts in armor, stammer
disrupts sin, confine, consign, maligning sleep cheated confession
-the bible of those two
No, shows volumes long broken in chances were so very dire, mums
the word, for two as livid as leaves, flightless
It’s all so climactic, she said
The blood clot.
That effortless bruise, the reminder of all that was, is– holy.
The prayer in tongues older than sound
more revealing than sight,
larger than the space a girl occupies
naming the planets, each for a sigh.