And She Is Incandescent Yes But
Fearfully, fearfully yours,
I belong fearfully to
my past self,
and she is incandescent, yes,
she throws things around haphazardly,
has little regard for these bones of smoke.
This fragile skin of a collapsing
don’t think there is no shadow
in the rose garden, no cutlery clanging
in the recording of the night.
She wears this pigeon-gray Zeppelin shirt
and takes it off. She lies on the sticky
chest of indifference,
then rolls to the side.
She wakes early to the sound of rain
and it feels like relief
to the forehead,
then she falls asleep again.
She does not acknowledge the
Quaking Vacuum of Terror,
which is preoccupied but
has not forgotten.
And she is incandescent yes