but there is no Bible, no
God, only
a broom to sweep
hair from the floor.
I beautify the house
again—pluck
the daisies of my eyes,
strew them cross
the kitchen counter,
down the front steps,
in the bath—treachery
is no excuse for
homeliness. Spring is
inevitable; they will
bloom again. There is
no temple to raze
to the ground, no
enemies to lash
this body of braille,
so the story goes
something like this:
a man moves in
darkness, to darkness,
a woman has scissors
for hands, the only
prayer is a meeting
of metal an
infinity loop of sound.