Voice

In what language

do you prefer to be alone 

Do you possess a single word

for pale-mute-lost 

Does your body lie

in a different attitude

Do you hear her voice differently

or indifferently

Write me a letter

The Archivist

She alphabetizes atrocities by day

and dances to the beat of the oppressor by night.

On the sprung wooden floor she holds hands

in the circle and stomps between accents

till the song surrenders.

She favors facials and varietals,

poached salmon and balcony sunsets.

And always there is music.

Her friends, scattered round the globe,

keep their doors open for her,

though none ever see the roots

that part her hair.

She can archive anywhere.

At bedtime she soaks her feet in lavender 

and then sleeps unwound 

till the wine retreats  

and the dreams advance.

Bus

The wheels on the bus

go round and round no more.

Rather it slips off its treads, 

releases the reflection 

of each window,

extinguishes its lights

and empties itself

of all its parts --

its only volition now

a sweet sinking

into leaf-packed soil

amid an exhaust

of gnats and wasps. 

This is where,

far from green lights or footpaths,

the wood has come to meet it,

to envelop it in ivy and laurel 

and purple porcelain berries,

to adorn it like one of its own,

to hide it from heat

and wrap it 

as if it were a gift.