I
Blue thread
hung from trousers,
vestigial hems calling
for shears.
Mother stilled me
and fell the errant
cloth.
White sheets cover
the desk my brow
shed its first
dew.
II
Ash fell
from a cigarette
on an empty page.
Her finger
pressed it flush,
smearing a dark trail
sinuously down...
A lock of Holly's hair,
like Christ's face in clouds,
was the word made.
She wants
clear windowed silence.
She, rendered still.
III
She sent the sun.
On its face She is under the sign,
translated an order:
Michelangelo: Please
"I blame the mistress remember nothing.
I was born to serve." Simulacra, the Dead's liturgy,
Postmarked "Siena, 2013". Passed by sleeved
hands.
Siena eclipsed Lisbon.
The ships, dismasted,
off shore.
IV
Paula blew
smoke from pursed lips
as we walked narrow streets
stretching to shore
Where listless
crafts
gently rock
on sun-dipped
blue.
Her ash fell to sand
covering our wreathed path. She is the sign.
The world's chant:
She, she, she, she, she
V
Passed by naked
The lamp burned hands.
low upon
arrival.
Locks fade to ash.
Like Holly's face
in the creased photo
adorning a staircase,
accompanied by
Sun.
VI
Paula smothered the lamp
and curled sinuous
beneath sheets.
Lisbon mounted Siena,
Our bodies, displaced,
at Sea.
VII
Smoke shot from
creased lips
as I discard
these pages.
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