A painted smile speaks and constant
are the fingers circling where a ring should be.
I fear cold. Loud wind takes me there.
Back to Canada. You know.
It happened don’t you?
The veins in her arms are like ladders propped
against her heart. And although she would not deny
herself things to make her happy there are times
she wishes she had been in that room, done more
than just hear the hum of dying bees.
Hunched it seems his spine has collapsed
as sparks rise up as they did when he raked the grate.
The bees. My ears are full of bees.
They never stop. They won’t ever stop. You know.
I am not responsible. Don’t you?
The imprint on his arm reads as a synopsis.
So much to stay alive: A tray of gold.
A hank of hair. A sea of shoes. A dead man’s bowl.
Too ill to swallow anymore, he assumes
that ink spells no absolution.