67

She is there in the church door

As I bring wood up from the

South steps her body as blue

As the stone and a wind coming

Over her fattening her rags

And drawing out once more and

The rags are sour yellow clotted

With rain that is coming in from

The mountains and which falls

Into the vault of the buildings

And breaks in star shapes from

The force of stone and seems to

Stop in the air in constellations

Full and mute and far and bright.

I pass with the wood into the

Transept and her body crouches

In my stomach like a succubus

Her flesh wet and her mouth open.