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Doing the Puzzle / Angry Voices

Doing the. Puzzle / Angry Voices Pieces ofprairie - thecolors without names a tree of juncos, gray bellies rising, some song. Prayers for the dead must praise God, no mention of sorrow, no mention of death, as if at the moment of inconsolable loss we might forget to praise God. The prairie we live on, what's underfoot plowed to make a road wedrive to the overpass eyes ache, what if I couldn't see the sun on Lespedesa, prickles, but onlya purple sheen on the black cardboard piece to reveal its place in the whole. Praise in the midst of disorder, so if the eyes roll back in the china head, fall in, and Marjorie is broken in my fifth year, praise Him. Every book that documents birth puts onto gender a meaning. That piece of the junco tree is filled with sparrows. The black is all color, no, the absence of color, no engorgement at midnight, no purple. On the puzzle board, what grows is a picture of Adam and God in collusion, all the beasts and no companion to help. But still, if incorrectly, each beast must be named. In the office room I inhabit a new lamp drapes light on daily rituals of departure, a party I skip to walk on new snow, granular, wool socks. 28 Here's narrow focus, patina, the coat of glass. This piece: against a wedding feast, cranes at sunrise. Every moment of night sleep, alert. Praise at the keys ivory, ebony. We have to function twenty-fourhours a day, seven days a week. The responsibility ofthe body- catalogues coming through the mail, pages of photos, description, legends under color charts, alveoli, taste buds, hair follicles so busy until the end, the rooftops - you, heart not only head. Mother, each day of my life you raise your hand to touch me. When he left me this time, mypalm held the heat of his cheek. Where does this piece belong? Who will tell me? 29 ...