the babies in india
already
eaten taken
from their cribs by snakes.
a song begins
and is already on its way to silence
and then to memory
and then memory too
decays away
into nothing
the colors peeling off
white clouds in their wake.
my nails grow but must be clipped.
the burns on your fingertips, my love,
so tender now
so fresh so sweet
will harden and fade back into the
fossil they once were.
the god-given silver inside of me
in its twists and knots
will loosen
as will my bones from their sockets
my hairs from their hold on my head.
but
in the beautiful pretend of prayer
i imagine ourselves
constant as ghosts
big white banks of forever
full of everything that
wishes to continue.
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