the radiance of grief
There is nothing more beautiful than a woman in a long dress playing a violin
as if it were her womb. Architecture is lyrical as a covenant. A crucifix speaks--
the madwoman bent on conversation--but we always kill prophets with
words distending like an ocean smuggled through a well.
A wailing emptiness maneuvers but collides. Ask me again if I fear the drawings
that wrench my heart through my palms and I will show you how red becomes
the dye of a lineage even when you cannot trace the outlines. The silence is thick
for whatever purpose that is unreasonable and unlikely.
Today between the bones the veins a pinwheel of immortality croons with
a hymnal’s worth of time. I am watching as the man bothers away sweat and we
share a small joy savoring a morning of resolve to see auburn pine needles cradled
by the soil when the windows are the color of tropical fish.