the fairies no longer visit,
empty winds have ground the
river to a halt
dreams churn like crude stones
among the bones of so many orchards
rue, now lipped to my wrist which
dangles a pale bone and withers
regret, my body
unfolded soft and drunk with silence,
consumed by the leech asleep beneath
my ribs and somewhere, blunt
weapon
the crushing failure of words, the sea
a blue membrane of something secret
and forgotten
it is a chamber bloodied with the self,
the soul, broken instrument, fueled
by the illness of longing
what names do I call? Elektra, Kassandra,
the poor, embittered Helen
each garden I have loved but have never seen,
each fountain that will pass as my life passes,
and how one must slump
and stumble to guess at death’s constancy
so the willow paints its dark, whispy fingers
against the breadloaf of a heart, crushed
and repentant
if only to glimpse, for a moment, the prayer
of between-world mist, fertile
and full with strangeness
When read out loud, wow; wow; … wow
