roots , flesh and grain offered up as sacrifice by ritual of fire upon white hot coals aromatic with mysterious unguents the high priest turns and gathers them with implements of sacred wood and iron prepares them with anointments of secret herbs and lotions with eyes and hands by ancient signs examines them announcing at
departures in the rain almost broke down almost spoke your name she was on the cross town bus wearing her hair like yours stopped at erie and ouelette as i walked by one misted night in windsor under a winter rain— she was sitting by the window half obscured by condensation her breath visible like
breakage early morning avenues reveal the fragile- before they hide away to their shadows and bleak shelters- the tourette lady screams out good morning to the cripples and the homeless, i can not meet her eyes ignoring her and them into non existence i count the concrete cracks and look away, deaf to her braying-
shattered no one looks at her as she walks to school uniformed, books clutched to her chest passing cars, pedestrians see past her through her she is unremarkable she is scenery. each step to her destination an effort not to turn and run sheer force of will her only glue to hold together her plain
fledge each first day of school we stood beside you waiting for the yellow bus to take you there. we knew you would return our ache temporary. no more busses stop here today we stand beside your car packed with everything that is you this place no longer serves your dreams we each whisper unspoken
in the measure of spring outside the open door half the horizon holds up an illusory sky barren fields melting form their own inviolate border a lone raven lifts its wings a shadow over muddy mirrors stacked summer chairs wait to be used again defrosting in the returned sunshine the air whispers a tentative welcome