She was a friend, and she was a friend and the 3rd
one was not yet a friend. (We spoke as though we
met on the street because that's where we met. Not
in houses) The others ( 1 & 2 ) were often in houses,
at cafés, in corridors. Occasional fields or hedges.

It just isn't possible to be a woman in certain places
at certain times with impunity.

There were dislocations that still are. She (#3)*
is through the light, is the peripheral force
all-at-once. They all are.

(*for weeks no one knew what could have happened.)

She was an animal catching light. And what is she now?

I speculate into the moon and all symphonies
slip diagonally when required. What's required
for getting there are cries in colors:

the murder: red crayon
green carpet, yellow flowering shrubs
and four hands of children.

the self-murder: blue paint, severe reading, two
hands left, and hers. Ginger.

the unsolved:terrible black rains, much
more water than usual after
a trip to town which bought
potatoes. Salt. Metal. Wet
glass. The high grey winds.

Now:The moon and I can only banter to work this out.
It's our job, even circular, and because I mind.
I have been left here. ( & and the matter of not
really being a friend is a burden--remember
the detective (read poet or friend or neighbor)
is a kind of rope and not all evidence is forensic.)

Close the eye to open itbelieve
not only what you're told
by the green repetitive sea, the open-
windowed houses, any room above trees
( the chronology is summer, spring,
winter. the methods: gun, gun,
water & wind. )

The spray beats landward into pages of
The medium splays in her armless chair
each Friday night scanning
the scripture of the dreaming eye

Prophetic socket!

Any body is a day of rain, any body
is towards bones & light

hair shredded in some terrible closet

(It is important to know that all three had thick
dark hair and coincidentally two of them were
from the same city, though of these two they
moved away into different countries )

It just isn't possible to always be a woman
in a certain place or a certain time
of the self with immunity.

I sit upright and hidden. Great stones are here
holding down the land while my first eye hangs
a blue-sky moon on either side of day and night.

(You'd think the medium was useless with her
rattled breath. The terrible push to track
the other side for spattered dots of flight
taking shape . . . . . . )

The missing leave express invitations
making us
the beautiful suspects.
The black-out curtain stirs like a woman's hair
within her lover's fist.
Dot-dash syllables return less like mist
than before, a hapless mouth
to shape the names gone nowhere we know.
But close, close.
their chaperone gaze. Parallel lights.
Infinite mode (s) of heart's desire.
Act & Answer. A tumble of invisible hairsaltcold
windowsThe missingThe missedthe
mind's elastic eye


read the author's Working Notes

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