Orpheus

Between two lines of print
a voice Is tearing.
Newspaper ink spreads on the tips of my fingers.
I pull toward me, making the fine sound.
It is a falls, a whisper,
a stretch of giving like the shout of a far crowd.
There is a sharpness to it, a note like fat burning.
Even thinking
gets into it, this stripping between facts.
It is the news of a last speech.
Tall women
are running through the high grass toward bloody water.