Aubade

for Andrew Joron the desire to show is destruction in lessons forgot before learned no shrunken heads hang by wires no mourning songs of half-remembered shutters open the width of an eyelash it is enough for vision to run its finger along, for access to steal from forbidden shores the still-cold beams of night and pack them in ice but a child couldn’t live here nonetheless in the morning is come a bell that summons a fortune that reads she will soon cross the water and the intended instructions which may not florish after all she leaves a painting outside her room and in the morning it’s gone and not one word is spoke between them but her father carries it to his grave the desire to show is destruction and we are not hung with skins we must follow internal echoes commit ourselves to memory