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| Giulietta |
in the beginning—
her light, always her light
then noon— penicillin
and a needle full of death
flows this morning in Verona
and that pit,
years and years deep
lurking in the corner
of the marble garden—
arms and bones
tangled, broken
and the smell of death
but
where are her bones
with the scent of honey and myrrh
and
who will reap the grain
from the yellow fields of August
no! no! no!
harvester, sheath your scythe
I will not let her wander
all alone in the sterile garden
my gentle old priest, please
take this grief away from me
here is a loaf of leavened bread
for your kind service
