this ancient winnow of mine;
bare sieve, collective sigh:
the brutal eye-said night, where shuffles here
the feet that were mine;
these corrosive pillars,
unmined the connection they imply, a throat bared to the sigh,
where the nigh that could find and place
all those breathless bodies bedded to
the mar bled toll; ; ;
my mother in a paper box, perfect square,
exact 6” x 6” x 6”
rationally enough post-9/11 fears led the airport security inspector to inspect her. cotton swab run swift, post-some-chemical-dipped, along its seams; I wondered, how do you seal a cardboard box containing someone’s mortal remains? the rage. the rage at him.
my father then, less freshly dead, by now I am
both late and gleaming; shiny, crystal-edged.
you see? dip your fingers: here and here. now run your fingertip around my rim.
do not I sing?
“My plane,” I said, “I’m late for my plane.”
a pale hen lays no brown eggs.
a pall hung over L.A. None drowned today.
a ball swung. at missed. the doctor owned
naught but toes. one tires
that is, it.
a pale star hangs
upon the rim of Salem – “salaam” – amen – ‘s morn
the bell’s the clearest peal.
re. a. son
a finenest enabler
what else can make us w(r
se after this day