Pink slippers—
The voices
Return, the voices
From Antioch, Agrigentum, wherever
Return, clear

Splitting apart
The bottled, rotten
Remnant we
Dwell in, with a swish
Of clothes falling 

From limbs radiant
The voices 
Return. She stood
And shook
Off everything, stood

In the silver light
A moment,
In a forest, in
A city, ancient lamps
Marble paving—

And the pink 
Slippers? Later they
Crossed
A road, other feet
Than hers in them,

But to death
He loved them. Pink
And voices, distinctly
They spoke, delivering the drift
Of old stories—

Wickedly 
The swish, the dark
And silver joy, the arms
Holding, the perfect 
Fit, immediate.