Superstition
But what with the knot in the rope’s midsection?
What with the casket, the anchor of all?
Salted: as for accident. Stoned: as for
your body a tablet. Rose and crucifix
for the last finger pointing. Dogs
and their pack-hungriness. In time, cedars
harden by their own resin. As with each,
each door is numbered. A book of some
kind: moth-spotted, thumbed, closed.
Never a voice to call the night’s hour, always
the owl that shakes nerves to part. But what
with the featherstitch under your rib cage?
What with your eyes that takes the dark to see?
