Cortege

Cortege

The morning is a flattened black tongue.It falls through me like a chain dropped into a well.

Each time the dead light a cigarette a star goes out.The hills spark and fade and do not suffer

the vagaries of speech. In a drawer, one glove restingnear another is all there's left to say

about shadows gathering near the mineral springslike a tight braid in an unseen fist. A drawer

is a simple box. In it, a woman masqueradingas a name I cannot name. Sweet mother. Blue hills.

In your light, my hands are visible. Your facein mine as the water grows still.