Old marital disputation;
Hadal the cliff, nightly perch.
Too old to hang there, defying gravity?
Spring rain. Fresh gown
of horoscopes. She wears a bodice
of welts. Stress, futility, allergy?
Even at the mattress edge,
her birth stone is green
with blood occlusions.
To sleep, she pretends
she is a pilgrim in a church
furtively biting the altar cross.
Saints abolish time without telling.
Touch foreheads, beloved ghost.
Keep this in the head, of course.
The mouth its splintered source.about the author