the glass shattered
down to the very bed of it,
the lintel of the window,
jagged with light,
and i turned and saw you there
veronica
but it was a dream
you were a pass of cloth
you were an image
you made only an impression.
masks:
looking back on what i've lost,
i wrap my arms in white linen--i am
marked with mourning,
marked dawn's,
something
as easily marked
as white linen
something so
shattered
shattered
to its very frame...
something
ready to build
in the empty lintel
left by your name.