8
Mourning turns the page. A dazed lily twirls
on its stem. Death, irredeemable number,
scatters bone. White musk curls in silk whorls.
My heart is penniless. The touch of skin
is the touch of stone. A crisp hydrangea
consoles a window. Induplicable
instants inure us to loss. My heart petrifies.
The dark wall is a corridor, a toreador
to an absent bull, charging nothing.
Is the force too great to wield? Words condense,
heard, to sense. The canon unravels.
A lone voice reels. I want the bone healed.
O valediction, all the clocks, rage, rage.
Time comes true. Mourning turns the page