I have no one to explain my grief. I have the moon, but it mirrors the changing shadows on my face.
There
Don ColburnWater, bone, bed, bedrock –
whatever is underneath, below what’s below.
Sudden touchable quiet, shadow
of a shadow. Weather. Sadness turning
ordinary. Nameless illness coming on.
A knock at the door so gentle
it could be anything. Distance.
The just thing not said, or said too late
or said exactly and without mercy.
Wind rising. Whatever might rise.