A few broken brass notes,
drift down the street,
At every corner there are young girls
lined up for the telephone.
Venus runs before the moon by two hands.
The Moon waxes, falls later into cupped palms,
Then she wanes, falls onto the back of my fingers,
. . . splits in two.
Her words ricochet . . .
. . . Grandfather I am sorry, each time we talk, I feel my weight crushing your bones.
. . . Grandmother beneath our voices, you are falling.
. . . Father you hear every thought of mine and die
. . . Mother who carries me in her womb - my heartbeats stop you each day.
. . . My son whose voice brings stones to life, I feel your weight on top of me.
. . . Daughter, I breathe with your laughter, soon all my breaths will be yours.
