She is a blind glass resembling water,
A body, a dead syllable; she is a woman
In a dead package, numb as a lily looking
For an appropriate sun scissored into a
Black cloud. It seems to give her warmth,
Like a live skin. Widow: God made no
Promises; your prayers singed like a burning

Arrow up to heaven. You mourn in loneliness
Like a drunk sleeping in a puddle, wet in a
Dull sense; thoughts, crusted and sallow. Are
Your friends four seven eight and nine praying?
They are folding hands with nothing in between.
Their souls pass through one another in stale air,
Blinded grey to their own bequeathed marriages.

So kiss your husbands in dubious doorways and
Forget their Monday names. Their minds flicker
Like candles while playing prodigal charades.
Hello again to a sweet girl with churchyard ears,
Until you get stiffed again with a wink and a blessing.
Now kiss again and make up while your wedding
Band flares and your backdoor lights dim.

The paradox is that the plays the thing: the prima
Donna pouts, the critical stings that burn through a
Line of words; the cultivated acts in front of offspring;
You all walk barefoot on walnuts in your withered world.
One dry eye, one tear rationed with each breath. God
Appalls from his bold beanstalk. Lie and love while the
Sharp scythe hacks away your days and years.

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