She tells me

Her name is spring
born when lambs sprung forth

He remembers going to the airport remembering how alive each memory
carried by this duffel bag. Her hand gripped tight around it. A worn out string hung transparent.
Upon black peat lay her reflection. Within fleeting fog an embryo morning came

Dismembered remnants
At the safety check he recognised her eyelashes upon a face of a bystander.
Rustic irises spoke from another female face. Bearded men doing a spine piercing ritual observing his posture while grimness oozed from their static face. He holds his hands up in the cylinder while she is beside him. Inside the plane he falls into numb sleep dreaming he passes the exit, nothing to declare it says

Nothing but ashes
long lacing cloud whisps move back forth back
this plane window is showing him vague views
in arriving
an oceanic orchard opens

January 11th 1963

living is a dying art
autumn obits into inner stars
this whole winter sea horses sing
my untamed love
for ariel

February 11th 1963

I see mosaics
words leaking
words leaking
from kitchen tiles
from kitchen tiles

poesy proclaims
living is a dying art

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a dedication to Sylvia Plath