The Second Death

So like the slow moss encroaching, this
dark anxiety. In the bricks
by now
and all along
the shaded left side of the house.

And the statue, behind her knee. Her
ankle, in the cool
space between her breasts, spreading
in the earliest hours
of the morning.

Between her fingers.
Her parted lips.
That black-green
whispering.

More Poems by Laura Kasischke