A Dream of Windows Where There Are None

All my remaining days are

frames absent
posts;
small years
gasping
Easter without fire
over
thresholds
hushed
behind the choir loft.

I am
unembarrassed,
poured over
church lawns;

long shadows
of last bridges.

I am
a last people;

a dreamt language
of exhausted pictographs
pounded
into
brass
and cornhusk

where my children sleep,

become.