Catafalque

The young jay mimics hawks with its call
Something trembles deep in time

Because the world
Is a little bowl of flotsam
More alive than the Sun could be alone

And I am alone

I cannot bear to watch or think
My own hands are my mother’s hands now
My grandmother’s

Age painted them with marks familiar
Only the pillar whose root shatters
Is entrusted to hold up the stars

I know these old hands
From outside of before
Where concrete objects reign ironic

I want to entirely forget this human fashion
Yet this desire carries music
Out from ancient stations

Blue petals hide another moon
Of course she’s not my ghost, yet
There are my mother’s hands, again

Drawing. Dreaming.

Drowning.