Sunday, October 12, 2014


The withered breast
With eyes of love
Do we look at gifts
Of death the eyes
Of a God whose
Gaze freezes red shift
In our veins until
The corpse of a sac
Wriggling calls out
Its new name having
Passed that thresh-
hold impassed

Aren’t we embodying it
To meet this way
In a grave summarizing time
As such crouched because
No one is free
From pain so sing
With me a song
Whose words are chronic
Weaning the lover back
From the gradual black
Red shift frozen before
Life began death began
To take away my love from me
Singing in a cadence
Of the unthinkable.

--for Beth Murray, composed spring 2012