Rebecca Wolff

                 for Anna’s house and land

Pissing into someone special’s grave

and the mourning just goes on and on—refreshing,


a place for my mourning to go on and on
laid. I am that widow

of my love’s wife. Life
laid bare. Window down flat. I can’t put anything more

out there. I can’t put anything

more out there! Do you hear me, now that cries
real tears in sound in rooms. And build

a rectangle frisk
the ground up


make frozen the ground
and lay it down.

It all goes back to my transpersonal heart, flooded with epi-
nephrine at a sighting, false, emotionally hallucinatory, bereaved of vision as I am,
his car in back of mine, close up on mine, why is that car following so close on mine
when it is not his, moot, response completes. It’s easiest to believe

that I am dead. There is a part of me that died and it is the best part, infant,

Code inspector, structural
engineer, he won’t penetrate that
issue. It will be easy

to live here forever if I just accept my death, and live as one dead,

meeting ghosts on their own hollow
terms. Demands that I provide a fount of self-love

suggestions that it is possible to do so, “provide this for yourself, gushing fount, self-
replenishing in a tall cylindrical

phase.” Ghost,

I can’t die because of my real children. Build
sidereal into the mountain.

But nothing can distract me, really, tall glass
fuzzy rabbit
work habit
creature comfort
all that is available

and all that is real. What is also sidereal. What can distract from what was most