I stole the diary.
It was me.
It was the day
she died.
In the clay heat.
I hung
at the eyebrow
of the funerary jungle
below the burial-
song line,
I hung there
until too many of you
were playing cards
or eating ham.
In my tinny voice
I said, Come here.
In its black box skin
it strove
for my hand.
Fat hours. Deleted
sentences.
Tiny light bulb
the lamp store
won’t miss.
