Crazily lit,
a swamp of white.
So the secret is I glow.
Blush with dust and ephemeral lungs.
This is my architecture, mineral
and air, what I have always suspected:
I am clamorous. I am a
paper daughter.
Theater vessel, ovaries charming as nests.
Wraithlike
masonry, grainy as sugar.
Disrobe me and I am a cotillion dress, bone white
crocus
and hungry as a milkweed.
Seven fences of lamplike
bones
I would like another name now, in Gaelic
or Sanskrit,
meaning hushed or
the grain after fire.
I have earned it: the only edifice I own
and what astonishing
gratitude
to know that beneath and below and
beyond—
think of sand covered briefly,
shockingly,
by snow—
there is something cluttered, and beautiful.