Often grief’s still waters
are useless spilling over
from the heart to the eyes
and loneliness is often
a line imprinting
the salty edge on the agile page
You’ve often written
in the shrill disbelief of the syllable
when you found it good to presume
that in writing you’d lend meaning
to your eyes filling with sorrow
Today is stamped an indelible mark
on the skin in whose pores
writing will grow till there is nothing
to remind us it came from bone