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Loss has no end
We wake to the rumbling thunder of blood,
Pumping hearts, twisted hearts, this shadow and I
Squeeze into the thick silences of trees.
The dark lights of Christmastide afflict us
Twilight memories drift, flux, flicker in this breeze of time.
Penumbra-beginning, hologram-end, my friend.
Such pungent affirmations,
Slip into the generations of suffering:
Eyes lifted to a cross, a crescent, a menorah,
Yearnings spilling onto the pages of history:
Promises made, and never kept.
And I am, sorely, bereft.
You slipped out of time’s descent;
In the beginning was my end, my friend:
The sacred apartness of the intelligible:
Fragments of the blood firing in the brain,
The body, a holy place again,
This tinder-box of meaning flares, ebbs, flows,
Insufficient means to shift the blame
For just another winter suicide.
