Instead again a knife.
My shorn head
rippled on the blade,
a cameo ghost
:Arms crossed, I stare out from the porch
at the usual trees & last year’s birds,
here in this new century
(once unthinkable without him, without her)
I am now as I was then:
A pair of eyes on a stalk
From a distant fragment somewhere in the mind of God I was shown a different Earth, a giant orb, howling out its long symphony of pain – all the sounds of mortal anguish, in the silence and indifference of the stars
The children scream for ponies but I tell them
(hauling up another weary pail of air)
God can only hold our empty hands.