the whore watches herself undress
in the cracked mirror of the frozen river
and birds as black as arrows
dart forwards and back in the sky . . .
two easter eggs end to end
and two hands cramped into a
petrified smile
not deciding whether to pull the eggs apart
thinking better of going back to
the swamp where the blonde whore drowned
pretty enough and a virgin
maybe she would have given birth
to the fourth heart of the trinity

look at the sunset say what hides
in its dawn tell me something about
the life of birds at the bottom of the sea
with faces more sorrowful than fish