1.

It’s the rope you carry from a cemetery

with the dead holding on as if the knot

would keep its shadow in place

let no one lift it from the ground

to blacken their teeth not to forget

why night became a night

covered the Earth and for the first time

as the word given it by the dying

who need certainty, who lose their way

when separated from each other, want

something to hold that is not a stone

would never let go of their hand.

2.

You pull each clothespin closer

letting them hear the sadness

that comes over the wash

when its water drifts through you

to dry her blouse before your eyes

̶ every night now it soaks

in the darkness that once had a face

would smell as her breasts

the way empty shells from the sea

still wait to be carried back

̶ you listen for arms spreading out

as sleeves to start without her

are already gathering stars

side by side to begin the morning

that lost its will to come.

3.

You reach for December, rip the page off

letting it lay crumpled on the wooden floor

side by side, the days, hours, minutes

still shaking from the final week, you tried

to bring them back to life as tears

̶ this calendar can no longer hide your grief

gives way from under the great weight

that turns snow to stone where each death

stays covered with a night

that never leaves the room except as cracks

loosened by just standing in front of a wall

making do with what is left to let go.

4.

Where this scaffolding ends

the emptiness faces a sea

rests on waves that long ago

dried as one breeze more

still smelling of salt

and thee lift-off that’s now

impossible from the street below

though you rely on trees

as if for the last time each leaf

would soar branch to branch

see everything from above

̶ you reach for the ground

the way a roof is deserted

can go no further, relies on

corners and the afternoon

to fill the sky with its light

from tears trying to learn

how to dry, become pillars

on which everything is built

as nights that spill out

the breathing you no longer need.

5.

And your shadow becomes a river

shallow enough to cross step by step

taking her by the arm not to forget where

no one comes ashore alone  ̶you walk

weighted down by a bottom stone

turning grey, set in place between

each death and water that no longer rises

though your forehead is wet, was kissed

where grass should be, sweetened

so she could tell you are overhead

warming her where sunlight used to be

are wearing her favorite jacket.