It's so hard to live,
but easy to convoke
a vision of a life that lingers,
as by itself,
until a masterstroke
of consciousness
silences her ringers.
The grave, too, has a key.
No privacy complete.
It's like one thigh
gets weary of the other,
and blows apart the prison,
in a feat,
so neatly put together
by the lover
of skins
that justify the fall.
The first one,
but the hardest of them all.
2015.