May 17
The wheat is blessed: my children are beneath it.
Some promises are unkept; trampled before their due. They remain 'til all past honours and familiar kin are burnt by fire.
Those above the altar, sewing a world: in red thread, they made us a promise. It was writ into tapestries.
It was set forth in immovable type, titanic classics; that we all knew and few re-read. I sat and remembered it in my dead neutrality.
It went, weep all you want; but not in my house.
--
Oh, remember I cared; I smile, toss my hair,
You dropped floors, in curses I can't forgive,
(Places where I'll write our missing scores...)
If an infinite storm slows; set it in a bauble:
On my chest; the condition for heart arrest