We moved into the fall,
weather-proofed all winter

and then Sylvia, risen
on long stems out of pocked
soil, nine plump vials full
and glowing like blown
coals in the glassy air.

(Across the ravine we drove
the narrow roads then walked
beyond a row of weaver
cottages now studios,
a slabbed lawn of a burnt
church, trees through its arches
still wintry against low gray,
and into the walled
New Cemetery. Grimy
disheveled grass. On her
gash of bare soil, dulled
plastic flowers, scattered
flaps of drained skin.)

Now the petals blacken
and scab off. To speak
truth is to spit blood
at death. The diagnosis:
hypersanity of manic
depressive red, children
like vendors calling
in the night, sunshining
needles in the eyes,
poetry a demarcation
of the doorway, earth
flowing away and then

she’s gone again, a missing
limb or father, half of skull
or personality and we
are fixed in fall, but watching
for her cauterizing fire.