To just stop will mean no more swish or fizzle or bubbling, no delusion of
an interval.
Then, the music.
In the meantime, don’t ask, he won’t hear you.
from “The Book of the Dead Man (Silence)” by Marvin Bell
closing the front door, rose and lavender, corners smelling of dry grass
the dust has created patterns on the walls, paint ebbing like waves
anemic blue; the vases sit empty in the halls.
the golden garden on the headboard has begun to bronze
its canaries no longer sing, instead twisting to fly away
four posts, velvet curtains, and summer heat, still
nothing heavier than her name
nothing heavier than her name
i'm sorry water pools around her old dancing shoes
when he walks in he cannot ignore how much he loves her
petals in the soft water of memory; let the flowers sing
he bends over to gather the pieces, careful not to cut himself
she is bone under silk gowns; another piece of broken glass
she doesn't look at him; everything is china blue
there is no one under the covers; a soul bereft of body
there is no one under the covers; a soul bereft of body
spring will never come again; she cannot hear
a man kneeling by her bedside, lending himself to defeat
a man kneeling by her bedside, lending himself to defeat
