In the doll spot the violins in your eyes
are not the choir i was looking for.
merely the shell of a silent scream
in semaphore *******
lavishly devoid.
Pondering the revels of Last Things.

I came upon your homicide by chance.
tripped over your open wounds and hung lights
on your bones to find the empty wells
yawning with grief invisible… and all the secret storms
of your tepid furies. i read your mail.
in a sense.
i saw the background of your foreground
as the planet you believed in.
and waved at you “ Goodbye”
because backwards
Day.