In her room, by the body's
clock, she wakes, rises
as the dead might rise,
bewildered,
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.
