The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded
Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.



moartea finala


moartea finala

des 1

all above, the sky-blue sky,

and underneath, clouds underlie,

grey and mottled, patched and patterned

found words fail, flawed labels flail

then language is discarded


palms down, small hands hover,

burdened by air, buoyed by water

resigned to remain agnostic

gambling on the hinge over the lock

each vessel knowing only what it touches


an un-dented mind directs small, fastidious hands

castaway stones are re-gathered together

pockets sag under manifest density

atoms come to loosely vibrate with their neighbors

before passing through another door


pancake water, here to the vanishing

the horizon embraces fire over ice

air over hovers with rapt indifference

while the current under argues depth

when one portal martyrs to permission the other


moartea finala, another sunset passes