for Marie

Then, you were a hot-thinking, thin-lidded tinderbox.

Losing your balance meant nothing at all. You would

pour through the aisles in the highest cathedrals,

careening deftly as patriarchs brooded.

You made the long corridors ring, tintinnabular

echoes exploring the pounded cold floor,

forcing the walls to the truth of your progress:

there was a person in this church's core.

Past thick stained-glass colors wafted and swirling

in pooled interludes that swung down from the rafters,

cinnabar wounds threw light on your face, where the

pliant young bones were dissolving in laughter.

From Eve