Someone always coming to borrow her soul.
Her agreeing.

The world, full of chandeliers and brambles,
always honking
outside her door.

She will not let it in. But
will leave the window wide open.
Bend her heart toward it like
a loyal beast of burden. A Bedouin
inviting all strangers.


At daytime, myopia -
buttons, worn-out syllables,
measured steps on the sidewalk.

Come night - incandescent vistas overlooking abyss and astonishment, and slow emergence - from where? - of winged crystals forming and re-forming, non-existent colors.

For a long time, like the rest,
she tried to make do with one heart,
but the smallness of it
wouldn’t stop crying.

(for Barbara Jordan)

Seneca Review