The Living Dead Woman Has No Plans for Crossing

the digital divide :: she’s mirror-width from 
touching cloud :: a moth unmoved by 
flame :: her crewelwork all that flickers 
on this passing side of grave :: some fingers  
 
do not bleed when pricked :: the gleam of 
crescent jaw :: her botfly craters barely  
felt :: a ticking not from clock :: what  
ambiance she cannot see for pixelated 
 
box :: she can ignore the orchid ghost ::  
datura, primrose, phlox :: for grief turned  
latticework offsets a toothy petalled
loss :: what boneset cannot heal :: 
 
a bulb :: more cathode tube than star ::  
a soul bereaved is proximal :: but far 

The Living Dead Woman Gives into the Welter
The Living Dead Woman Sonnets