If I Shut My Eyes, I Believed,

I Left My Mark On That Man.

At The Tips Of The Feathers There Is Air And At Their Base: Blood. I Hold Up Bones; I Wish Like Broken Glass They Could Court Light....still I Try To Place These Pieces Back Together, To Set Them Firm, To Make Murdered Girls Live Again.

The Dead Are Never Exactly Seen By The Living, But Many People Seem Acutely Aware Of Something Changed Around Them. They Speak Of A Chill In The Air. The Mates Of The Deceased Wake From Dreams And See A Figure Standing At The End Of Thier Bed, Or In A Doorway, Or Boarding, Phantomlike, A City Bus.

I'm Just A Friendly Bystander Who They Occasionally Ask Questions Of. That's My Level Of Involvement.

You're Not Supposed To Look Back, You're Supposed To Keep Going.