niqab

the gift of women, then, in a
sort of heaven:

• humans don't so much shatter
  as come apart.

• "they don't love their children."

• daughters, now, receiving
  the send off, not coming home in
  boxes, not enough to be
  found,

• sentries. walkers that go
  any where, watchers that
  suspend in black a motif of eyes.
  

what do they offer them for that?

within the shroud, a shroud. an eye.
within the shroud a ticking heat.

(You assemble a percussive beat, which
is not the heart's beat, but rushes in
the blood all the same)

last entries, part one

from some notebook a year or so ago.

__________________________

You do not think these things. You
Unthink. Hands' fingers follow
Gravity; hands on knees draw the
Line of the eye you cannot
Look away from.

You begin to envy -
"who then can love" - Rilke.

But hypocrisies - Catullus
Lied and you caught the
Disc of it years too late -

Only the alone can truly know
The tremble of field before plow -

At the edge you are, the field's
Edge, the flower-falling edge.