Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio, Ph.D. |
Poet/Scholar |
by Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio, in Glyph |
Rose Jones, Cleaning-Woman Hospital switchboard operator: "Mrs. Jones expired a half hour ago."
Now you are dead thirty minutes I will dream you
in layers of the rain's gray light
and the dream has you singing elegant notes thin as silver knives
with your arms leaning like sleeping rabbits against your window
as long wet mercuries roll down the pane cracking it changeably
and dreaming you I dust secret corners in your feelings and dream loaves of mutual balm
and you, dreaming, fire me to sweeping all the glum minerals out of Bed-Stuy, out, out to the edges of the rivers,
and your sister, kneeling, bangs tin pans to erase with crashes the drunken man at your funeral, with his steel eyes and lips, and the thunder climbs calling back a green Carolina universe
while under the shadows of our morning noises you sing carvings
and make a church of gray layers there in your newest neatness. |
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