for Susan Weston
Here are the surfaces of things:
I take this shape in my hands.
Turn it over. It is a brown seed: huge,
its hide an elephant's hide,
grey-brown where the elephant has rolled in mud,
[...]
Sometimes I think of you as alone in a small room fitting
together bits of ancient pottery.
You are as careful as if they were fragments of life,
shard notching into shard,
and I imagine you humming a meaningless white song.
It is emptier than the [...]
I haven't seen your bruise: I don't have to. It's four
inches long by an inch wide, a ragged welt in the
middle (raised, crusted), then purple veined red. At
the outer edge of the bruise, there is a blue halo fading
[...]
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