Sylvia, did they ever give you

that pearl button, or an eye

seeing to the road you drew,

The bones you arranged

and stuck together with glue?

Were the worms

that jolted into you

something you knew?

Something that grew like tulips,

that you couldn’t uproot?

The mirrors you filled with smiles,

they learned to undo.

They grabbed your foot and your root

and stuck them together with glue,

untwisting your smile like a screw.

They all claim to know your “truth,”

a Picasso painting in the period of blue.

They never seem to let you be through,

your black telephone

was never cut from the root.

Did the dark water dark heaven

let you through? They never could

talk to you.

So they walk through the road you drew,

using your images and words as clues.