The stench of death

Clasps my lungs

And my hands

In turn the left breast pocket

As if there were a psalm

Buried within the syncopation.

The gulls gather overhead

Their vehement cries

Perforating and with shrillness

Stitching the world

Into an arbitrary silence.

Her yellow dress curls

Like moist paper.

Her strange eyes

Pinned to a darkening nimbus,

I await explanation

Though it serves no one

To speak.

He left me she says

In a voice without

Thread or continuity.

He left me again and again

And then finally

I lost count.

How permanent

A thing is when lost.

She folds her body

Into a river,

Still and transparent

She sheds her remaining tears

Her allegories, her fractured pride

And falls into a sleep

Too vacuous to admit

Her melancholy.