*
Between this screen and the spider
licking its web, moist, caressed
kept whiter than usual -for no reason
these cellar walls were painted white
-each brushstroke as in the evenings
a sadness just hangs from the window
and you try something somewhere
-your fingers damp, empty, smell
from light and the silence and the window

-the spider blacker than all at once
what the sun must weigh
if you could for once hold on
and your arms quivering, almost snap.
-all at once your breath
caught in the pipes and wiring
and nothing can save it -it will be years
before the screens come down
and slowly, bitterly you will say
the window is open.



*
By itself the fixed nod
and the sun all evening
hollows out its grave alone

--it will be warm
--so many flowers! gathered
as breezes sometimes for hours

circle where their favorite tree
burned to the ground --a strange black
by itself filling with winter

--struggling alone
and around my body the smoke
still hiding from those motionless flowers.



*
Her loom as if some wounds
can never close, are dragged
and the lamb --how soft death is

how white! all at once
it covers the sky
fills with this vague tearing apart

--documents, pages, rags
and she is combing out the lamb
from its fountain and torn again

--her fingers can't close, pulled down
by a waterfall :each strand
the mark on its throat --the lamb

put back together :her child
--over and over she rocks some crib
as if its blanket could break apart

and a little further off the sun
keep warm, nursed on the tiny stream
held in her arms --she sings to it

wringing it --inside, slowly
more tears and the years ahead.