red thread the open wound
and from it the red rivulet
will drain into the metal dish
and curl into water
no more now
it is just a stitch
stitches
the wound gash drawn in and thread
dust of glass in the wound ground in
round the heel and spiral down into
blue glass pummelled beyond crystal
a useless moon dust
pounded to glass
the red thread
lets no light in
the shards are small
red on gold under gold the red thread will tie in the sequin
the dress will transform from the funerary gown of soft cloth
metal pearl mother-of-pearl the peacock sequins emphasise
the scar : where it was cradled in soft cloth it shifts with light
it now shifts with light
a battle armour with shiny metal frilling
a mail-coat
an armoured dress
the metal frill catches and disperses light from
embonpoint to point of candlelight it is no dust
no accretion of dust occurs in the music of fabric
flame does not show yellow in blue blue glass
sequin it : it hides the wound
sequin it: with the red thread
sequin it : the loosed skein
tack it in stitch on stitch and
Early summer occurs
in a calamity of falling
young
petals, birds, the
bright souls of birds.
A small dead bird
is at my feet,
tree looms
over this soul-ossuary
dignifying the small
body with her dark needles,
bird-map-lost
Obliterate—
A small mourning
shadow passes over grass,
just long enough to hide the living bird,
nothing special
an empty birdhouse beneath
an overcast sky
seaside motel
the only window
filled with fog
autumn clouds
the little tick before
each petal falls
one at a time
the yellow leaves drift
to the ground
bare winter sapling
the floor of the tiny birdhouse
falling out
without me
my shoes so still
on the floor
the last to go
in late autumn twilight
slender birch
What space
is left
for time to flow freely through
when,
with each stretched instant,
small bits of me
die
falling away
to fill the graves
of unknown heros
and fertilize
wilted flowers?
embers melt down
old moments
tie themselves on
to the present
wine is poured
only for me
it doesn’t matter
we chose this form
the paintings of me
you promised
and the songs for you
that never came
don't matter
a year or 60
is over
old moments