She wasn't sure about heaven, / but she believed in birds. / On walks she’d stop to watch / a skein of geese
slip off those little red mary janes / the detested damp socks / edged in chafing lace
The heroes have autographed the table again / with their glasses, rings of condensation / in looped cursive circles that interrupt / / each other’s epics.
God forget-me-not / come replenish come wounded blood-let weary / undone fallen / trailing crimson promise
I would send / / the song welling in the bird, but keep / the seam of gold silent / / in its earthen bed.
