Set the Night Singing #2.43
Updated: Oct 15
Grief boasts its own celestial spheres,
its own white moon, its own brash sun.
As soon as one has gone to bed,
the other climbs horizon's gate,
and, freshened, leaps into his run.
It's no use casting up a wish
that they might leave you to your peace.
For grief, by nature, is no mark,
laid by to pass, and then forsake,
but, circular, tireless, n'er to cease.
A cloudy blanket might descend –
a sweet amnesia, falling rain.
Breathe deeply – then bare wide your ache.
And watch for surgeon sun and moon
to loop by loop, stitch fast your pain.