Visions of Never Being Heard from Again, by Rebecca Wolff

I stopped by to see you but you were not home

marshland

the pure vision

my ancient lives all risen up and rising

shudder in my bed to come up against

a living religion; they get offended so easily;

blow up your hundred-foot Buddha

no problem. Entire mountainside.

Presumably it’s an improvement

on whatever came before

on what was here before

ancestral crypt your daddy built; a grassy hill; a patchwork quilt;
inadequately warming.