Burden of Peace

It's 8am at the
rim of the hemlocks;
this side of the world rolls
and Sarah's wilted,
has gone out seeking agony
florid as she might

a thin hearth stain 
on her cheek

broadcasted round 

to other-sided nape

in that she once knew
and a knowing is 
a keeping,

then tall Helen

occupying a saxon body

lets coast one moan

rolling over,

her festered arms

and daisies she 

purported somewhat 

infuriate to trick him,

as with saints strapped

to white pine meandering

crosses,

the one whith whom

he was unfaithful and

he is bleaked in ecstasy 
by cause of guilt,
widens his gaze
until it comprehends
the entire breadth of 
her new untimbered shadow
upon which the light is 
always flattering.

Forlorn and fur-curled
twisted faking copper shavings

shining in every dim eyelash:
Sarah decays to the west
and did roll her eyes
without thinking of where

they’ve gotten her

or what odd symmetry 

they made

Now the sun will rise in gradients,

turning her insect skin
to vein like the last
polished lens of a tired
canon,

 

some bright footage,

of her and the almond boughs and their chemical skirts,

distilled as in so many retinae:

and there is much space between

the instant,

much talk of her 
obsession with the child

 

the one who came down singing, as
the sun collapsing around a thing

and who was twice like Whitman's, browless 

and deathless,

clean as he was vigorous;

 

but her voice is miscarried

through several groves

thicked with wood-veined

carving rinds;

and too,

by softer degrees

she disarticulates;

she has created

stark joints,

a made room for the

nest making yellow jackets

who tenant her

and make many more

 

all this done to rid rot of 

its need to eat her;

 

to show in what sort

of abundance she is

already there