Nothing to hosanna,you will be buried
Cold. Only the livinggo on living.
His face coming briefly into view
As the crowd pushes
Toward the subway entrance.
In its frame of light it faintly glows,like a projection screen […]
Whose name will be inscribed in the book just before mine?
His hair declared him his own bohemian, a middle-class free spiritwith a mortgage to pay down, a racing bike, a subscription to Netflix,and a frau as deceptively frail as Hans Memling’s palest Madonna.
The shadows creep across the lawn
In the silence of the afternoon.
A tiny wood raft was afloaton the cold gray seaof the cellar floor […]
appear overnight in the white gauzesoaking up her wound.
