In the Republic of Pantomime

 
To the bed,
                    Blue shrine:

You come
                    Bereft, a perfect

Prayer,

                    Sacred shadow:

In the holy dark

                              Breath, the shuddered

Shutter
                    Of the heart’s

Husk, let us suffer

                              Like autumn, singed

Salt,
                    Someone taken

In a glass room

                    Shines—you: with open eyes

Hard—you: flower-shaped

                    Seraphim—you: whirlwind

Of leaf-lifted
                              Light:

Naked
                    A cappella

In the Republic

                    Of Pantomime—

You climb
                    Though the steep olive groves,

A woman
                    Balancing buckets of well-water—