and riddled with holes—
they stole it
the way thieves steal our identity,
lift money meant for the mortgage,
walk around our house, shit
in the rooms. All that’s left
is this longing:
for daggers…
or orange blossoms,
the split
of olive branches
and always his dust.
We have to search, guess
where to place the stone,
so small, already seraphic.
