What’s death? Horizon kept moving
by time & denial? Hank of water hung in air
where love once stood, naked among stones?
His hand there. By which I mean here?
Ink-steeped wolf, boar, fox bristles
lineate feet, mons, breast, heart
in conjuring vista: the fist itching opens.
A graveyard, too, a cosmos of parts;
platitude fog suckling distance
as—wind-chime singing in a squall of snow,
in a coffin too big for its cookie-cut vault—
friend’s body descends. Four men scrambling & a saw
to make box fit hole. What leaves leaves us shaking.
You, moth: undress my face. Be more than made up
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.