The Passing

to the living poems i know.

it is true that in mourning we
weep away while
lifting the silence of nightfall,
its texture turned
against the grace of waking
hours, the knuckles of our
bones – softened on
its edges even with the crack
of cold and gray

that while tears come to our
eyes we
silently beg not to end the
stream
and let it flow to whatever
course the soiled
figure of our face take them –
glistening under the bridge,
hunched on the ashen surface
silvery like a thread when
rain clears the mist

over the sweep of an hour the
tremors would slowly rest
and before it we stood
abstract, almost theatrical.
we no longer carried the
mute and dull stillness
of grief,
but of the sharp focus that
slips quietly like
a weightless funeral.

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