--for Daria Fain, composed 11/2011
So expressed was a lung inside your throat
The way it microphoned the world
Like blood cleansed, leavened into dirt
The holocausts inside us, the heat on the air
No metaphors here but things seen
See us for what we are, we sing, we sing
Into the microphone called throat
Called air, another blue song
You put into a horizon note,
Splits where your dress was a difference
Where your hands splay the air
There is an animal poise
Called verse notwithstanding
Notwithstanding the world
Illuminated until it disappears.
Who will the living be
In robes of white terrycloth
And ribs like wings
Billow when breath
Is obscenely material?
Captioned like our angel names
Don’t become truly like
Our names until we’ve been
Will you be
In this robe with me
Will you be in this skin with me
Flawed, not a metaphor for things seen?
What will we be in talking, in walking?
What will we be in pointing?
The extent to which a world is formed.