Issue 161, Spring 2002
Destination, in the land of never enough,
is the cornice of all I can give / all that I know,
given over to deep blue sky.
The confirmation of poet is doctor;
the consummation of doctor is poet.
I have a black, silk-velvet gown.
In the composite, stranger / oh most intimate
incarnates the lens, eyes promontory, body oblique.
Her lover is a dried red rose.
At her feet, finch eggs in a blue ceramic cone.
The injured pigeon, now set free, nestles at her hem.
She is barefoot, primed to fly / to fall.
End print, half-kneeling, deep set in dark, clavicles
encrypt snow-angel wings / the stethoscope's repose and
constellate the white line of her throat.