When a soft projectile hits a fixed obstacle,
soft comes out of it badly. Over there,
in the bedroom, that’s a fawn.
Salt, blood, & saliva are gone now.
Sleep and death have transported the lithe body,
folded legs, and tiny bumps on the head.
A minor smear on the white spots is the only
evidence of a violent passage from bridal innocence
to the whiteness of death, which is the absence
of everything, and, in the end, all there really is.
It’s dark now, pitch dark. When you walk
through a beam of light, bending your head back,
I’m not scared. I think, Well, what a pretty body,
and then I remember you are dead.