We shovel it, hold
through the point
in the false eyelash.
I have three more lies
to tell, but they
each get through
the liver, back into
blood. Not to carry.
Nor to carry through.
The graveyard becomes
a tool for listening, widow
watching, sanding down
our first fables.
We are held in the elevator’s
strange milk. We are sour
in the light with children
under our own eyelashes.
Go, but falteringly.
Listen, but without your
boots, held so still
the grained light repeals
the movie you’ve been
ferried into. |