Last Rites


Darkest where the light begins,
sea I wish myself away to, black silk at sunrise:
From her window, the asphalt world suspends
what remains, a blink of her owlish eyes.
 
Sea I wish myself away to, black silk at sunrise:
muscle by muscle she abandons her body;
what remains, a blink of her owlish eyes
stalling the future’s end to this eternity.
 
Muscle by muscle, she abandons her body
paused in the skip between two weathers;
stalling the future’s end to this eternity
she concentrates, my breath a model for hers  

paused in the skip between two weathers.
Believing she’d only forgotten how to breathe,
she concentrates, my breath a model for hers:
in, out—tedious tide before fire’s reprieve,
 
believing she’d only forgotten how to breathe
as her fingers faltered from her piano’s keys,
in, out—tedious tide before fire’s reprieve,
horizon flaming, her window mute and ashen as she,
 
as her fingers faltered from her piano’s keys
the chaplain held her vacant hand, bone and vein,
horizon flaming her window mute and ashen as she
as he sang her Elvis: “Love Me Tender,” “Kentucky Rain.”
 
The chaplain held her vacant hand, bone and vein,
I swear something passed over her eyes, last music
as he sang her Elvis: “Love Me Tender,” “Kentucky Rain”—
her voice lost to me, every quaver, each harmonic.
 
I swear something passed over her eyes, last music;
Why hadn’t I saved even one syllable?
Her voice lost to me, every quaver, each harmonic--
even a voice mail, what music it would be.
 
Why hadn’t I saved even one syllable?
Her body went on without her two more days;
Even a voice mail, what music it would be
now sun’s a clot webbed in a world warming and frail.
 
Her body went on without her two more days,
a porcelain field behind glass, the blue milk sky;
now sun’s a clot webbed in a world warming and frail
here in her window, a lighthouse’s orphaned eye.  

A porcelain field behind glass, the blue milk sky;
I read about the architecture of floating cities, time almost
here; in her window, a lighthouse’s orphaned eye
stares vigilance from a distant, drowning coast. 
 
I read about the architecture of floating cities, time almost
to remember her voice before it filled with sand as she
stares vigilance from a distant, drowning coast.
Tell me, where isn’t the water rising?
 
To remember her voice before it filled with sand, as she
from her window, the asphalt world suspends--
Tell me, where isn’t the water rising
darkest where the light begins.