The city smells like summer, like roasted meat, like earth.
If the skin houses the soul, where is the door?
Footsteps, the dark street, and a man behind you who says, I have a gun.
The wedge of geese flew into a wide mass grave.
A blood rose prides itself: the brand of his fingers; the thief takes hold of your arm.
Persephone, her hands imitate a nest of dead goslings.
Our bodies shift in their nests of velvet, blue suits, Sunday dresses, shards of ivory.
Behind the high cement walls of Rosehill Cemetery crows turn their heads and listen.
A cemetery wants to be the wedding of the orchard and the moon.
If the skin houses the soul, lovers walk up the street, lovers and the lonely boys who wish to be in love.
In autumn, in moonlight, a great arc: the hullabaloo of a thousand wings.
The geese could feed on watercress, they could glean bent acres of yellow wheat.
If you are pretending you are somewhere else, sooner or later you should get up and go there.
Arrows, maidens, rise up, depart.