there is a hell you love

in your absence      is the screech
of swine as      the shower comes
on and in the steam that fills      this cell there is
a kind of hell      you love being born
in the red muck      a jade blooms
in only the most precise      winter light a cross-
section of the kalanchoe      reveals kalanchoe
the wild is the garden work of mourning      a woman
whose hair      has become too thick for rain