Thursday, April 14, 2011


In her room, by the body's
clock, she wakes, rises

as the dead might rise,

calling out.

On glassy legs, she shimmers.

     Imagine feet unbound, bloodless.

     Imagine hands browned with old leaves
     who won't sweep off.

Listen as she calls out to him whose gone.

See her roam the winter closet, lost
among his coats, listen...

voices come
frail as china,

rooms grow thin, birds

come stealing in

pick at shard
and shell.