(1)

Slashed and gashed,
and rawly torn,
grief’s sirocco burns.

(2)

The dust is settled thick;
Chokes up the books and coats
that don’t get used
and slide from weary fingers.

Wine to cook with; an
early start but who’s counting;
she’s chatty with The 7:30 Report,
talking with her mouth full
and dozing after.
The hollow house sealed:
she’s a coin in an empty Milo tin.

(3)

A half-turn of the orb: she’s on it.
The assumed-salted soil
grows a coil;
Green and tightly wound,
unsought, but after all, why shouldn’t she
and why not; plans root down.
And come spring rains will
push up out on out of dust, litter
out up out toward light.