The radio says it's dying
of love, but it seems easier
just to change the station.

News of the holy market,
in agony or born again.

I have a lock of her hair,
a little singed, as if corroded
by the wind from the foundries.

I have a postcard she sent me
from a few blocks away.
Her pen was running dry.
Her name is pure imprint.

It is her triumph
to overthrow herself
and mine to be her witness.

The radio says it has learned to suffer
in secret, alone,
for the sake of absolute detachment,
even as the street fills with flags.