Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Fingers in the mouth make mud
into a poultice to warm         the dead.  Only water moving fighter slow can’t get out til
something goes in, above and below meeting at ice or lotus or     iris.  Look at me
the way two soldiers paint one another’s skin with wet hands until nothing is left
but the eyes.  The dead we   burn; the living we bury in our faces.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014