Right now there’s a closet corner nearby
with somebody in it
crumpled like a soiled shirt in a pile of shame.
Blame is a cop out, a cheap cab ride to the park.
“She did it to herself,” some smugly say,
flagging down a ride as she flat lines.
Others look away as her soul floats out like a bottle
bobbing in the water of her eyes
and leave too soon to see the turning –
finally, the turning toward a Face and not away.
The Dove is descending. Does anyone notice?
Does anybody even know her name?