Tuesday, September 6, 2011



she’s smaller than she ever was,
her face is like a globe, or the expanded edition,
soft melon, cold.

her eyes hold all of her now,
the rest is hidden by a robe
that enfolds her like a whole field,

like a deflated willow, turned to soft cloth
cleansing a disc or a wound, i would rather
move further on towards that day
than remember
that day will come soon.

even smaller then, she will fit into a glove,
she will turn to soft cloth,
and linger, linger, linger like the moon.

-Bree 2003

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