the poet's death is her life
she has torn the blood free from her flesh
of mind,
only another can touch the character in deed
this height by volume has no cord
of the sky
i have fallen with tear
disposed of any possibility for union
touching lightly is of no measure
the usual things remark in response to rain
the day after
quite hope
leaking a faithful love of her landscape
land standing soul wet
washed over bodies who've died on course
incapable of large design
and factual truth
her gowns have no length and bare vines
hand apart
bound with briers in lap
who pronounces the world
again,
a holy place.
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