five-thousand little fingerprints ringing around
the inside of my head. their worth
rung out to ladders and crystal dish-clothes where
one china plate slipped and shards
made blood
we all made blood, through the touching singing
whispers in my head.
called nicely: poetry
called cynically: otherness
mostly, i say, it is just a trapsing melancholy
staring out
at
dead trees waving
maiden-dead branches at a Sky with
once-virgin eyes
who has now seen too much.
we all made blood
the last pavilion 