It is the soul
of the souless condition...
John Desmond Bernal
She is dead in a dead building in the dead of night.
The word becomes triple distilled extracting
the essence of ghost, ruin and stillness.
In the corner, a moth clings to a cobweb.
Its wings translucent and veined in green
like the scarf she wore earlier -- protesting.
The streets were old brick -- strewn with lilac leaves
and people marching in the cool light of Spring, The sun's flicker
serving as their candle. Somewhere else, a brass valve turned on
releasing a shot of air that erupted in flames. Something was flung
into an antique warehouse -- gutted and muraled with graffiti.
No broken glass but fragments
of porcelain-pale bone. Later, she awoke here. Her shadow molted
as she watched the lace wing shimmer
in fragility like the silken cloth -- she bought but couldn't afford.
Low wages led to this --
crossing over from a single word
to another kind of holy trinity.