Thursday morning again,
aluminum-green and matted,
dead though listening for Sophia
to click-step the short hall,
orange and erased like perfect pacifism.
She won't come again after today,
vein-gnawed and mealy,
I will miss her.
Thomas called at 9, his voice thimble-bushed,
hazel-doored noise murdering
simple words in machine-red rows.
he asked what I was reading.
I answered, myself, Sophia and cigarette packs,
things that taste like almonds and warm glass.
Sophia, you have gone, your winter-mouth
is pouring chicken bones '
your lovers are drowning;
I am crying in your sizzle-blue ears,
listening to beautiful violent colors
of your wrist-snap literature.