Think of me, Miss Bishop. Though thou art
interred—
surely my words can sift between the worms and gravel.
Taste the floss of candied thoughts unraveled—
can they awaken dormant bones? By thin hands
divided, we each alone in nitrogenous bubbles.
Mine above; thine below.
I see
no difference
between
crumpled care—silk and buried there—
and a warm organ balanced
on the edge
of the well.
So it feels like hell, she says
of her finite little art,
worlds apart from your practiced part
of losing. But who is to say
we cannot play in her kitchen crypt
and
your stone tower?
At this hour,
only I
am capable
of bruising.
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