All here, hereafter
She is made of a strange stone,
a crystallized mud-brick
entombed with the shadow of a sun line -
looks for direction in the resurrection of the glib hereafter,

afar, chaste
like so much dust on your hands;

she thinks:

dance is a spark
to which she might speak

voice breaks on tongues,
words acrid and gabled and
swell, teeth taught to foreheads,

she is beside him again
breakage through keyholes
the wreckage of the late summer,
first unbearable winter without

him, we are all here,
in the ever after hereafter;
eve of the evening setting sun,
bitten with internal monologue
that sounds better unspoken

she has become less woman
more worrisome machine

mechanical in her meanderings;

she is the friction of forethought,
unmoved by what she is not.