véronic

years ago she was the nurse
from médecins du monde
who held the x-ray of my broken arm
against a home-made tray of light
i dreamt of her again
last night

this evening
the sunset turns red
the moon is just a shard of white
i walk around the block
and walk around the block
there is no way of knowing

window

the vision burns
within me and through me
pooling at my feet
the floor made window into the world
a glass through which i see the ironworks
deep thrumming of great engines
grinding bone to ash
the garments of a woman
laid out on a bed beside a wavering furnace
they smell of talc
the stockings have been worn
the odor is not unpleasant
the scent of a woman
weeping naked by the blond bed
her hair is gone
she is bald and shaven and shivering
her ribs beneath her tiny breasts
her eyes the insides of skies
vacuous
she raps her fingers on her skull
empty echoes of an oil drum
a thought drops from her mind
it might sound like a tear
but several come dripping
the faucet run dry
her bare body emptied
beautiful in all its pure lack
and so become perfect
because you can starve her
and still not hollow her out
she is filled with visions of white cities
adobe of some other realm
the place she weeps in begins to diminish
whether it’s moving away from me
or i’m moving away from it
i can’t tell
sometimes the apparent is true
it shrinks to nothing
my window through the world closes up
there’s a knock at the door
she has become lovely
wrapped in the robe
of all her own hair