(a poem for two voices)

Whispering, the gossips
turn her over and over.
She is theirs now,
      I remember the sound
deeded by her fall,
      of the small rains
thirteen stories down.
      and the fresh smells after.
Down, down past
      There are no rainsmells here.
the draped and blinded windows
      no, nor any freshness.
behind which so many
competent physicians tinkered
with other human machinery
      The corridors are long,
while she hurtled past them
      blank as the November
down, down, down
      when I rode the darkness
She fell down.
      down through the day.
They brought her their specialties
      There is no one here:
To where she lay
      no one to help
broken on the splintered roof,
      no one here
her legs wrapped
      who can remember
around her neck,
like any rag doll.
      the sounds of the rain
The whispers say
      of the small rains
her head ought to have smashed
like a shattered pumpkin--
      or of the dark wind blowing.
a miracle she survived.
      no, nor any freshness.