We cannot update you yet, other than to say we are caught
in a doldrums between stations and that your father can wait
as he has been waiting these past two years . . .

A woodpigeon calls
his five-note matins.

Petals ratchet wide
as the sun rises.

Distance from the ground has become
a way of reminding myself,
how the earth turns her swaying tilt

Inside May’s warm beauty
I think of God and of the Virgin Mary.
I’ve always loved Mary.

three sheep and a sharp wind, behind
which I feel involvement start
to tug.

I’m six days late
and this is known as a
delinquent period.

You seem very far from home
and who would after all choose a grit pocked
pavement to languish on

Clouds spit on the coffin,
wring oily rags, splash
a woman, her violin
cased in sunken purple.

And did she break your heart?
A woman asks, perhaps imagining
A fallen chalice . . .