Miss Bishop



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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