Returning to you sylvia in the black week of no moon: the carapace the awkwardness aflame with evidence the jew-net of Poland -- your rack of guilt.
to fly at the sun or burn in its shadow emptying pockets before you leave you reap an abandoned harvest, but
the acolytes who call and call hear the ringing of rocks; bells around the necks of ghosts lying down in hallowed halls, somewhere bellowing
their words like yours punishing me punching me up the middle, every image jagged remedy my **** to my heart jammed with grief, throat swolen with loss
the case of your broken bits; crockery splintered in capsules or shoeboxes or drawers carefully there, there
you are lips pressing cold glass, to kiss you to drink your warmth impossible
after death I hear you; crow sends your messages but sweet sister thatβs not why you call
inimical oven: cavern and synagogue, I am undone discovering buried treasure.
in the breath of trees you are somehow there, in the quick-slip of feet across smooth linoleum my mausaleum agrees with your arrival
but in the hour before dawn in the silent roaring volume you never hear of my love for you