Strange how lifting
A body in death,
Though wrecks my back,
Still leaves me with breath;
But stifling
a heart break
Stops all air
my lungs make.
Strange how lifting
A body in death,
Though wrecks my back,
Still leaves me with breath;
But stifling
a heart break
Stops all air
my lungs make.
It keeps threatening to consume me whole:
This dark night of my questionable soul.
Death, separation and heartbreak,
I dread to think of what else they take.
For now as the summer sun grows hot
And the very earth condemns our lot,
The fates conspire and repel all desire.
Mourning comes in the building of a pyre,
With rules and laws, medicines and food,
What should I beg for and to what good?
I cannot blame an evil eye, or sin,
For all this breaking and screaming within.
It seems hopeful to call it the forge of life
And believe in higher metaphors of strife.
I’d rather know less of grief than I must;
I’d rather seek anything else to trust.
Standing on the terrace.
Billie’s singing
Bury a friend.
And I am thinking
No.
There is hope.
Prevent sinking
Hold a rope.
You’ll realise
You miss me,
Like in the movies,
“Indefinitely,”
Julia says.
You’ll drive to me,
Crazy, through town,
In spite of
The world locking down.
Come to where I stand
And hold me like you do –
Did –
And say, “surprise!
“I’ve been down
“You’ve been down
“But now, let’s rise, SF,
“Surprise.”
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