Accomplishment

All morning the sentence burns and I

Am bare

Bone unflowered by flesh.



What is pure? The child’s cry?

The pivot of my tongue

Translucent in a Chinese kiln?



The edge of the axe.

Echoes drop and turn, the woods

Ring with the stroke,



And my white skull wells in tears.

Day crawls down the wall.

Sun’s noise dies



In a pit of rock.

The crowd darkens the ceiling,

Throws dead



Flowers onto the edge,

And the fat jug smiling

From its empty udders hands



Me two children.

My blood achieves the rose –

I fold them petalled to my sides.



I am

Come into mine own.